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Afternoon: I talked her into going to the coffeehouse. There's something wrong with that; I'm the parent in this situation. I shouldn't have to talk anyone into anything. What I say, goes, right?

Of course not!

Now, I must cover another issue that has me so confused because I can't keep up with the constantly-changing rules. I never know the rules regarding singing. Sometimes, like at naptime, I am required to sing. Other times, like when we're driving to the coffeehouse and "Ol' 55" by Tom Waits comes on, and I do as I'm required by natural law and wail it at the top of my lungs, I'm told in no uncertain terms to shut the hell up!

Not that my child said, "Shut the hell up, Ma!", but I could tell by her tone when she requested repeatedly that I cease and dissist that she was thinking it.

Granted, I've set a bad example, I'm sure. When she sings all the lullabyes in her lullabye book, I'm all kinds of happy. You try listening to that little voice singing "Brahms' Lullabye" from the backseat and restrain yourself from wild, weepy praise.

On the other hand, singing "The phone ... the phone is ringing! The phone ... we'll be right there!" from The Wonder motherfucking Pets for 13 straight hours a day? No so much wild, weepy praise. Wild, wailing cries for mercy, yes. I can see why the child is confused regarding the singing rules.

Anyway, the coffeehouse. Two blocks from the coffeehouse, she says, "I don't want to go to the coffeehouse. I want to go to storytime." I explain that no, she made her choice when she opted for Naked Toy Crazymaking Time at home.

Apparently it's a bit soon for lessons this complex, judging from the whining, shrieking hysteria that ensued...

...which promptly ended the second we walked into the coffeehouse and ordered a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Which brings me to yet another point. Are you confused yet? Well, you should try it from my perspective because my God, this is how I live every day of my life these days! The food issues. This kid used to be the best eater. At 18 months, the entire kitchen staff at a local Vietnamese buffet came to the dining room to get a gander of the bald-headed American pho-eating baby.

Her current diet:

• peanut butter
  
• peanuts
  
• yogurt
  
• suckers
  
• mac & cheese
  
• raw carrots
  
• chips & guacamole
  
• mango
  
• anything on sample at Whole Foods, until it's purchased at the wallet-draining Whole Foods prices to be left uneaten at home.
  
• French fries
  
• hummus, which pretty much looks the same when it exits,
  
• and absolutely nothing else.
  
• Except cookies. You got some cookies?
  

Where was I? The coffeehouse, also known as Clara Jane's Pooping Place. She's doing really well with going to the potty when she has to pee. At least, she is this week. Next week is anyone's guess. As for pooping, she will only poop in two locations: at home, and at the coffeehouse. At least she's predictable.

Did I mention that I couldn't get her to leave the coffeehouse today? You know, the coffeehouse she adamently didn't want to visit? Yeah. We had the same battle regarding leaving as the one involving our arrival. Once again, I'm wondering who's the parent. Certainly it's not me because if I was the parent, there would be rules and they would be followed. Someone's dropped the ball big-time with this kid.

What's that? Oh, right. It's my c-section scar, burning like sweet death. It does that when I try to pretend that I am in no way involved with the pooping, whining, shreiking child who just gave your child the stink eye.

Was there a nap this afternoon? What the hell do you think?

Did she consume any dinner? It was chicken pot pie. Do you see that on her list of consumables? Of course not. If it was peanut butter nut yogurt French fry pie, the story would be different.

After the dinner battle, B. went to the bathroom to run bathwater. We were anxious to see if Clara Jane would melt when she came into contact with it. She slipped off to her room while I sat at my desk, resting my head against the screen of my monitor because frankly, it was the closest place to rest my head.

That's when the oh-my-God-I'm-injured-and-dying screams started from her room.

We met halfway in the living room, Clara Jane wailing and clutching at her eyes. Eyes ... how could she have injured her eyes?

Oh my God I left my blood sugar testing supplies in her toybox and she's gouged lancetes into both her eyes!!!

Wait ... I've never taken my blood sugar testing supplies to her room. At sometime during my freakout, she informed me that she'd bumped her mouth and that I'm a complete dumbass.

This tiny bump at the center of her upper lip, which produced about as much blood as I use in those blood sugar tests, required the entire family - dogs and cat included - to gather in the master bedroom while Clara Jane wailed, moaned, groaned, writhed, sobbed, gagged, choked, and screamed at me for attempting to comfort her.

"I'm ... so ... sad! Nothing ... makes ... me ... happy!" she would scream as she flung herself onto the mattress. Again and again.

After half an hour of this, I just stopped trying. I rolled onto my stomach, buried my face in my pillow, and just laid there. It was 7:30 PM, and I had reached my limit.

Minutes later, B. began listing all the things that make Clara Jane happy. Turns out, the mere mention of praying mantises is all it takes to bring her back from the brink.

She opted not to take a bath. Again, not sure who's making and enforcing the rules, but it sounded like a good idea to go with what she dictated.

A snack was made - peanut butter and jelly on whole-wheat bread, cut with a flower-shaped cookie cutter per her request - and my presence on the couch was required for a pre-bedtime viewing of Jack's Big Music Show. Not good for my headache, which had reached the point where I was trying to recall the symptoms of brain aneurysms, but the snuggle time was good for my battered spirit.

As soon as the show ended she looked at me with her peanut butter-smeared face and said, "I'm ready for my bath now."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

B. put her to bed. He's also been the one to go to her during the three times she's screamed for him in the past hour. I'm pretty sure there will be at least one more wake-up, sometime around 2:18 AM when my brain finally snaps and I find myself under her changing table, reenacting one of my other favorite Tom Waits songs.