Children are born with a certain sense of urgency about them. At 3 weeks old, Wanda’s needs are all immediate. If her diaper needs changing, “BLAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!” If her stomach gets less than half full of milk or if the milk in her stomach contains some microscopic component she doesn’t like, “BLAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!” If she suddenly finds herself in the mood for a little cuddle, “BLAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!”

And she’s a pretty easy-going chillaxed little baby. She’s not colicky or sick in any way. She’s just young and has needs and wants them filled BEFORE she needs them! I’ve watched my other two kids grow and mature, and their needs seem to be slightly less urgent and immediate than are Wanda’s. Where Wanda needs what she needs 10 minutes ago, Magoo at age 4 only needs things right this second and Laylee at 6 can be persuaded to wait for sometimes as long as an hour with relative patience.

It's taken me over ten months, but I've finally admitted to myself that my daughter has an attitude problem. I'm this close to calling it a Temper. A disposition so persnickety and demanding can hardly amount to anything else, yet I've been glossing over the obvious since her birth.

"She just knows what she wants," I'd say to my husband, whisking Molly away from his frustrated attempts to stuff a bottle into her mouth.

Dan's sister is getting married in July, and Magoo is part of the wedding party. They know he's the best one to bring the cuteness, so he shall be decked out in a tiny man suit and a small purple bow tie. The suit I have under control -- but since I'm fairly sure they do not want him to show up wearing sneakers with his dress clothes, I decided that yesterday we needed to do some shoe shopping.

Laylee went next door to play with a neighbor friend so Magoo and I could have a special date to go shopping for exciting things just for him. He was a bit miffed about being left out of the playdate fun, but felt certain that we'd have a great time together shopping for magical Magoolish items and probably rolling around in ice cream.

I’ve had a rough day. I’m edging into my third trimester, so I’ll blame my quarterly hormonal shift for the increased anxiety and irrational fear I’ve been feeling lately. I monitor myself closely and try to take as little medication as I can while still feeling normal and capable of coping with life.

But this week it’s been rocky, and I’m sick of asking myself, “Am I afraid for a real reason or are these cyclical thoughts and this tight feeling in my chest and the pit of my stomach just my brain rebelling against me again?” When I picked up my anxiety meds yesterday, the pharmacist asked me whether I was familiar with them and I started crying. Oh, I’m familiar with them. I was familiar with them for 2 years after Magoo was born and I’ve been familiar with them again throughout this pregnancy and I don’t want to be familiar with them anymore. I want my independent, strong, unbroken brain back.

If there's one thing I can't stand about toddlers (and, while we're at it, older babies -- I'm looking at YOU Molly), it's the whining. So much whining! But I've discovered a new way to deal with Mr. Whiny McWhinerson in my house. Lately, whenever he starts up the full force whine, you know, the one that starts liquefying your brain within seconds, I simply turn around, give him A Look and say, "NO. MORE. WHINING." And then I go back to whatever I'm doing and the two-year-old is sort of stopped in his tracks, looking at me curiously, wondering who this strange new creature is. As if to say, "HEY, where is the coddling?"

He IS starting to catch on. He's beginning to realize that my firm no-nonsense voice did not ACTUALLY relieve him of his whining skills. But I'm still enjoying the confused (and, I admit it, slightly wounded) expression. Maybe he's also beginning to realize that he's getting to be a Big Boy who knows the words for "help" and "please" and "cookie" and maybe if he used THOSE once in a while he might get better results.