I am standing in the blistering lava hot shower, thinking that this is the temperature of water only reserved for stark raving lunatics. And that is precisely how I feel with the steaming water pelting my skin in a blindingly painful rhythm. Like a crazy person who is desperately trying to maintain sanity.

I spent the day stay-at-home-momming, and I just want to stand in this damned hell-fire of a shower letting the water beat into my skull, hoping that if I stay in here long enough I might not even remember my own name.

But alas I hear K whine. I would rather hear a raging wail than that ragging whine that leaves me feeling wrung out. No…scratch that. I’d rather hear silence, then baby laughs, then babbling, then squealing, then wailing. Then whining. Whining will always be bottom rung on my hierarchy of baby sounds. And especially with K, whose whine isn’t so much as a whine as it is a bull-hornish groan that makes you wish you no longer had eardrums.

So I slide back the curtain and there she is toddling straight at me with this K-ish stagger that is somewhere between the gait pattern of a tiny Tyrannosaurus Rex and Dr Evil from the Austin Power’s franchise. Most of the time I see her and just want to scoop her up like Baskin Robbins, but all I want now is one more second of non-mom solitude, so I throw a towel over my head hoping she won’t recognize me. Like, hey, who is that dripping lady with the towel on her head?

Jiminy Christmas she knows it is me. Must be the boobs. I would like to take this moment to note that there are very few people who can recognize me solely and utterly by my breasts. Unfortunately Kira is one of them. And as she is hobbling over to my still soaking wet frame wailing like a banshee only now do I realize that I am raising a Stage V Clinger.

Worst part? I am the clingee. Best part? That sweet little baby with rolls where bracelets should be, who repeatedly belly smacks herself into the carpet and then laughs, and gives you an ‘I could give two shits’ smirk is MY clinger. I have never been inclined toward the malarkey of sunshine and roses, and my lot isn’t always the happiest, but it is stocked full of love. So I will take my wailing, smirking, belly flopping clinger as long as she’ll have me. Because someday very soon she won’t be my clinger. Someday very soon I’ll be able to stand in an uninterrupted shower for a week straight. Someday very soon she won’t be a baby and I am pretty sure that is the day I will miss this momming thing the most.