How to Look for the Little Positives During a Parenting Nightmare

The first day of the rest of my life started with my two year old daughter painting the living room furniture with peanut butter. It seemed quite ordinary until that moment. The alarm clock ringing in my ear. Holding one eyelid open as I attempted to help my wife pick out my son's school clothes, only to be told by both that my selections don't match. Having to haggle with the toddler that if she would stop screaming the word Coffee over and over, someone, either Mom or I, would indeed fix her her morning mug. One of my greatest fears is that my daughter will grow up and have road rage issues and blame it all on a incessant coffee habit that started as a baby under my tutelage.

Rushing my 7 year old grown son out the door, this average looking day started out with hope that he would get to school on time, and that I had for once got his snack order correct. Perilous times will come if the wrong candy bar gets put into the snack pack. We are talking nuclear explosion and world melt down if the Zebra Cakes aren't the right color. My daughter thinks Zebra's are delicious and would go on a Zebra hunting safari just to take a shot at one. She doesn't care if it's orange, pink, or black and white. Andrew, the son, on the other hand will only eat Zebra cakes that are made out of genuine Black and white Zebra stuffings. I am certain that there is psychology at work here, but I've yet to discover the hidden meanings.

This seemingly normal morning was going quite smoothly when Alayna, the daughter, decided she was hungry. Somehow she talked her mother into fixing her lunch right before she left for work. Melanie, the wife, seemed to have no issue with the early lunch, at least until I happened to point out the time. It was nine o'clock in the morning! There must have been a time warp breakdown in her world, because it never registered in her coffee deprived mind that while she was pulling out the leftover corn cob, the bowl of cereal on the table hadn't quite got soggy yet.

As I was saying, the morning was going just as any other, and I was alone with the screamer. There was a brief moment that I was enjoying myself quietly reading emails and such, when Alayna walked by with a towel. It was then I noticed how quiet she had been. When a two year old is carrying a towel unprovoked, following moments of eerie silence, it doesn't take Sherlock or even Watson to brilliantly deduct that an investigation is in order.

I'm not sure how it is in other places around the world, but here in my little part of the U.S. of A., we believe that not all Peanut Butter jars are created equal. In fact, we have two jars. One that is labeled "Family," and the other has my Daughter's name written across the top. If you have ever had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich out of the second jar, you would know why we have two. Peanut butter can hide a ton of stuff.

This normal morning, however, Peanut butter had a different purpose. Alayna decided that this would be the day to put her artistic prowess on display, and paint the living room furniture with peanut butter. Thankfully, I discovered the art work, before the canvass got expanded. I borrowed the towel that she was using to help spread the paste and begin to clean up the mess, thinking that at least the brown paint smelled, looked, and felt like peanut butter. I did not have the courage to do the taste test, which is wise and an effective use of my brain, because two minutes later, the Two-year old went Numero Dos in the Toilet for the first time ever in her life. Two minutes is cutting it too close for comfort, when it comes to the substance used as new furniture paint.

So why was this the first day of the rest of my life? I hate to use an overused cliché, but you will just have to tune in next time, and maybe then something exciting will happen.