When your kid’s throwing a huge tantrum, or just plain being demanding, when you haven’t slept, or eaten because you’ve been running ragged, and when they’ve fallen *or whatever* despite being told four dozen times not to do it or “You’ll hurt yourself,” that’s when you pick them up and hope that it makes them quiet for a moment.
And that’s when they dose you. Don’t be fooled. It’s not an accident, and it’s not coincidental. I’m firmly convinced that my kid knows exactly when to release that smell. The one on the top of their heads. You know the one I’m talking about. The one that sends you into perfect relaxation and bliss. The one that makes you love them and feel like being with them is Nirvana. I don’t know what the technical term for it is, but I like to think of it as “Mommy crack.”
She’s got it down to a fine art. She’s got it timed. She knows exactly when her Mama needs her next fix so as to not go completely off the rails. She’s my drug dealer, and she’s also the supply. So I can’t cut out the middleman in this.
The drug is the middle man.