“Mommy! Mommy!” Emily’s voice pierces my deep sleep, interrupting my precious one-on-one snuggles with baby Charlotte who is just four weeks old. I instantly remember one of those older mothers preaching to me about how going from one to two kids is like having four. It never made sense to me before, but now I get it. It isn’t two times harder with two kids—it’s four times harder. Or at least that’s what it feels like when you’re trying to bond with a baby while trying hard not to hurt the feelings of your hormonal “three-nager.”

I had forgotten how easy babies were since Emily turned three. I’ll take middle-of-the-night wakeups, spit-up and diaper blowouts over my toddler’s constant need to be reminded about how awesome she is. Don’t get me wrong…she is awesome. Ask anyone who has the pleasure of hanging out with her outside of the household. It’s not surprising that she captures the attention of strangers so easily…she is ridiculously cute and sassy with that unique strawberry-blond hair and those pretty blue eyes. All it takes is one little smile from her and cashiers are handing over rolls of stickers. Little do they know, that sweet grin can transform into a devilish scowl in seconds. Just tell her she can’t play with the hose for hours in the backyard and you, too, can witness her turn into a tsunami of madness. As Alicia Keys’ hit song says, “That Girl is on Fire.”

“Coming!” I respond in the nicest tone possible, because if I show even a little angst in my voice, she will start screaming and telling me I’m mean. Dealing with her high and low emotions is like walking on eggshells all day every day. Imagine having to tiptoe quietly around your own home in an attempt to avoid stepping on an IED. She could explode at any given second.

As if she’s onto her sister’s ways, Charlotte is now awake, bright-eyed and looking around as if anticipating her sister’s next outburst. Only a month old and this kid already knows it’s best to not piss off Emily. I roll off the bed while balancing Char-bear in one arm, mashing her head up against my milk-stained shirt. I don’t breastfeed and I never have, but I have the luxury of leaky nipples, which have stained all my awesome “in-between” shirts that are baggy enough to cover up my flabby postpartum belly. I brace myself for the inevitable exchange I’m about to have with Emily. I can always guarantee there will be some sort of argument this time of day. She is not a morning person. I already feel sorry for her future husband because there is a good chance he’ll have to keep from speaking for at least the first hour after she wakes up every morning…if she even lets him share the bed with her.

I take a deep breath before I knock on her door. She has trained me to knock before entering, as if she’s already trying to hide some sketchy teen behavior or drug paraphernalia. For whatever reason, all the doors in our house have locks on the outside. Maybe the mom who lived here before me had the brilliant idea to lock her toddler in the bedroom and she was simply paving the way for me. I lightly tap on the door, as if I’m a doctor knocking in warning before entering an exam room. I’m armed with patience, deep breaths and positive vibes, on a mission to start the day off right and ready to tackle any tantrum that comes my way.

“Come in,” Emily says in the sweetest voice possible, making me believe she’s the angel all those unknowing strangers think she is.

“Good morning, baby girl!” I muster up my most chipper voice and ease my way into her room, prepared for her morning mood swings. She’s hiding under the covers, ready to play our daily game of “find me.”

“Hmmm…where is Emily? I can’t find her,” I say as I sit down on her purple comforter between an Elsa doll and a stuffed troll. I feel something poke me in the butt cheek and find a plastic fork underneath the blanket, apparently left over from one of the many tea parties I’ve sat through. As if revealing the surprise of a lifetime, she flips the comforter off her head. I go along with her antics like I’m trained to do.

“Ohhh, there she is!” I take in the big smile she has on her face. I know this smile won’t last and it will be wiped away with her first tantrum or disappointment of the day.

“Where’s Daddy?” she asks as if she forgets that her father goes to work every single day of the week.

“He’s at work,” I say, hiding my anticipation for what is about to happen. Here come the tears. It starts with a slow crinkle of the eyebrows and a slight jutting of her lower lip. Before I know it, she’s in a full-blown sob fest.

“I want Daddy!” she screams. “I don’t want you. I don’t like you!”

“Okay, I’ll leave then.” Feeling defeated already, I cradle my sweet, innocent baby in my arms and walk out of the room like a lost puppy dog. “Your sister is crazy,” I whisper to baby Charlotte. She looks back up at me as if she completely gets me. This is the stage I love…when all they do is snuggle and are unable to form sentences that are designed to be mean. By the time I get to the memorized creak in the hallway floor, Emily is shouting again. I knew this quiet time wouldn’t last more than three seconds.

“Get back here NOW!” she shouts, and I have to remind myself that I am the parent here and I make the rules. Sometimes I forget.

“I’m not going anywhere if you talk to me in that tone.” My voice is stern and my words rehearsed, but then it dawns on me that I just used the word “tone.” That’s such a mom word. What has happened to me? When did I become this lame thirty-something who uses such serious words? I stand outside her door yet again and look down at my husband’s borrowed T-shirt. With my free hand, I flick off the Cheerio that is stuck to the breast milk that has accumulated on the front. “How do you ask for something when you want it?”

“Get back in my room now please.” She uses the same angry voice but tacks on a “please” to the end.

“That’s not a nice tone. Try again,” I talk to the door and notice a string of drool that has accumulated on the white paint. I make a mental note to patrol the house for these drool spots that our gigantic Newfoundland has a tendency to leave behind when he shakes his big fluffy head. Another thing to add to the ever-growing to-do list.

“Will you please come in my room?”

And I’ve scored my first point of the day. It took three times, but she finally obeyed me. It’s the little obstacles that we must celebrate, right? That’s one of those famous parenting quotes, right along with “Pick your battles.” Pick your fricken battles? I face five hundred battles a day…how on earth do I decide which ones are worthy of “picking.”

“That’s much better,” I say as I start this entire thing all over again. I sit down on the bed and prepare to have an end-of-sitcom style heart to heart about a lesson learned. “See how things go your way when you are nice to people? If you ask nicely and follow the rules, then you get what you want, right?” I maintain my sweet voice and tuck a piece of unruly hair behind her hair. Cue the slow music. She looks me in the eye as if she is taking it all in and absorbing every piece of advice I can give her. It’s a mother’s dream.

And then it happens…

She scrunches up her nose, squints her eyes into two slits and sticks her tongue out at me. What the heck did I do to deserve this?

“And THAT is not being polite and nice,” I say before I go into my rant about how her face will stay that way if someone hits her on the back. Yet another awesome parenting urban legend that is said to work. Apparently, she doesn’t care because she continues to stick out her tongue and shakes her head side to side. I can pretty confidently say that my daughter is beautiful. She’s got these deep blue eyes, soft fair skin with a touch of pink to her cheeks and hair color women pay big bucks to have. But, in this moment, she looks downright ugly and rat-like, and I find myself unable to hold back my laughter. This only makes matters worse and pisses her off even more. The crinkle between her eyebrows increases and she tries to stick her tongue out even further. She puts so much effort into this that it looks like she’s in pain or just ate something unbearably sour.

“Stop LAUGHING at me!” She kicks her little feet into my side, and I’ve officially broken down into a fit of giggles. Apparently, it’s catchy because now she, too, is laughing, and for a brief moment, the two of us are pals again, laughing at one of the simplest things in life…a funny face. I savor the moment and muster up some more chuckles to keep her riled up with smiles and sweet little girl giggles. Her laughter is the highlight of my day, and I know her mood could sway in the other direction at any moment. Toddlers are ticking time bombs.

As our laughter settles, I feel like I’ve scored another point for the day. I made my girl laugh so I’m obviously doing something right. Besides keeping two kids alive, I’ve managed to make her experience one of the finest emotions in life…laughter. If only for a brief moment in time, I feel like a superhero mom. And just like the weather, that changes and I’m back to feeling defeated again. I notice Emily staring at me when I lean back against the bedframe, holding the baby in my arms.

“Mommy, can we send baby Charlotte back to the hospital?” she asks nonchalantly, as if it’s a totally acceptable question. It’s bad enough I feel like I’ve been cheating on Emily since the baby has arrived, but now she actually wants to send the baby back…not even to another nice family. She wants to send the baby back to the hospital with strange nurses and uncomfortable sleeping conditions. This is the moment I start crying. Between my raging postpartum hormones and Emily’s toddler mood swings, the two of us are like an emotional tornado. We are both hot messes.

“Why would you want to send her back to the hospital?” I hide my tears by thinking of how funny this situation actually is and how I will surely laugh at it one day.

“Because she is BORRRING.” She gets up and starts pulling stuffed animals off the shelves. Everything is boring to her these days. I’m not sure if she even knows what the word means, because she’s been in the middle of an epic bounce house birthday party when she’s said, “I’m bored,” with a massive grin on her face. It’s one of the many words she’s learned from her pal Peppa Pig.

Whether she is bored with her sister or not, I can’t help but feel guilty for having another baby. It has flipped our lives upside down—in a good way of course, but it has also tested Emily’s confidence in us and challenged my patience to the max. Every time I have to leave one of our Barbie doll playing sessions to change a diaper, I feel like I’m sneaking out on a spouse. I see the evil looks that she gives her little sister, and I secretly wonder if she is plotting Charlotte’s demise. Emily likes being the center of attention, and why wouldn’t she…she’s been the only grandkid with three sets of grandparents. And now she has to share all this. It’s partly our fault, as we’ve gone along with her princess antics, and it’s gone so far that we introduce her as one of her favorite characters before she makes her grand entrance down the staircase every morning. These entrances are no joke, either…they are complete with a curtsy at the end. And as if on cue, I am summoned to make her daily introduction.

“Mommy, go downstairs and introduce me as Princess Emily Minnie Mouse,” she demands as she tries to pull down one of the many costumes and dresses that hang from her closet door.

“We are going to the park today, honey, so maybe you should wear some shorts and a T-shirt,” I say, knowing full well I’m won’t win this battle. Getting dressed is one of the biggest challenges we face these days.

“I want to wear a dress!” she says as she tears down a red and black Christmas dress with velvet trim and sparkly red sleeves. I cringe at the thought of her wearing this dress to the park, and I instantly see a vision of her tearing the material as she goes down the slide.

“You can wear a dress, but why don’t you pick a summer dress. That’s your special Christmas dress.”

In a sound similar to a fork screeching on a plate, she lets out the loudest screech I’ve ever heard. It’s so strong that it manages to wake up my comfortably sleeping baby. I give up and give in. “Fine, if you can get that dress on yourself, then you can wear it to the park.” I have full confidence she won’t be able to figure out how to get her head in the neck hole.

“Yay!” And she’s back to being sweet. “Go downstairs and introduce me!”

“Okay, but you have to get the whole dress on all by yourself,” I say as I exit her dressing room and head downstairs, prepared for the next outburst. It could be something as simple as her not being able to get her foot in a pant leg. These are the things that set her off. Putting her leg in the wrong underwear hole is a common event in our house.

I stand at the bottom of the stairs and sway back and forth, rocking Charlotte back to sleep. “I promise she will be your best friend one day, baby girl.” I run my fingers through her hair, accentuating the natural Mohawk that she was born with.

“I’m ready! Introduce me as Princess Emily Minnie Mouse!”

“Okay, introducing…Princess Emily Minnie Mouse!” It’s like I’m announcing a circus act. “Gather ’round, everyone…gather ’round,” I summon the invisible audience.

I get nervous as she makes her way to the top of the stairs, preparing myself for another fit when she realizes her dress is on wrong. But much to my surprise, the only flaw is that the dress is on backward. Her arms and neck have managed to make it through the appropriate holes, and if you didn’t know better, you’d never guess that she had it on backward. I can’t help but be impressed by her quick work. She plants a sweet smile on her face, grabs the railing and daintily walks down the stairs as if she is the most angelic creature in the world. I look on in awe, as I’m trained to do for these daily introductions. “Here comes the princess, everyone!” I carry on with the ritual.

She hops off the bottom step, raises her hands over her head, gets on her tiptoes and ballerinas her way around the house before ending her routine with a dainty little curtsy.

“It’s time to go to the park now,” I say, silently applauding myself for our somewhat early start to the day. I packed snacks the night before and made sure the diaper bag was filled with all the necessities. I’m certain I’ll conquer this day, even if my daughter wears a Christmas dress to the park in the middle of summer.

Emily races to the door and obediently puts on her blue Crocs, which totally clash with the red and black Christmas attire. Armed with the diaper bag, my to-go cup of coffee and Emily’s lunch box, the two of us load up the double stroller and make our way down the street for a fun-filled day at the park.

And then it hits me… “Shit!” I shout, and for the first time, I use the running stroller for what it was designed for and push it with full force, sprinting back to the house.

I forgot the baby. As I leave Emily behind in the driveway, I hear her saying, “Shit, shit, shit!” I push the door open so fast it hits the bulletin board attached to the wall and knocks it over, but the loud noise isn’t enough to wake up Charlotte, who is passed out in her car seat on the kitchen floor, looking as content as a clam. She doesn’t even flinch and her face looks pure and innocent. Little does she know, her mother forgot her and left her behind. I may or may not tell her about this one day.

“Okay, let’s try this again,” I say to myself as I heft the car seat under my arm and head out the door.