She's testing me.

Well, her, and you know who.

The Big Guy who thought we were a good match for each other.

The one who knows that I am perfectly imperfect for her and she for me.

They're testing me.

I'm being tested.

Did I mention that already?

Sorry for repeating myself.

I'm exhausted.

And who can we thank for that?

The one testing me, of course.

I'm venting.

Did you notice?

Thanks for listening.

You see, I have a 3.5-year-old, and I am not sure if she runs her feet or her mouth more, but both tire me the fudge out.

I love my little nugget with all my heart.

And, speaking of hearts, hers is as big as her everyday nonsensical meltdowns.

And that's why mothering a toddler is hard, especially when yours is a pint-sized, over-opinionated, unfiltered, semi-defiant, hilariously honest and cute-beyond-compare, powerhouse.

I don't usually drink wine on weekdays, but tonight, well, I just might pour myself a glass.

She's testing me, and so is He, and though I'm pretty sure the answer doesn't lie in the bottom of a glass of wine, I'm still willing to check.