Twinkle: Waiting for the Sh*tstorm to Begin (Warning: Explicit)

My oldest daughter, A, is 5-1/2 years old.

That's 5-1/2 years of watching people look into her (and her sisters') tired eyes and say, "She's going to sleep well tonight!" And 5-1/2 years of knowing they've instantly cursed us with their bullsh*t announcement. Because nothing guarantees a horrible night more than someone proclaiming that "she's going to sleep well tonight." Just leave it the f*ck alone, everybody. Don't comment on it! Keep it to yourself! Or if you just have to say it to me, how about I f*cking call you to come over at 1 a.m. when my kid is still bouncing off the walls, and you can deal with the situation? Or you can come over and sit in her room when she wakes up at 3 a.m. and sees a shadow on her wall. And I will go to your house and sleep in your bed. How about that? Because, when you say out loud that my kid is going to sleep well tonight, this is what I hear: "I hate you, Twinkle, and I want you to have a miserable Friday night." And then I watch you drive off into the night, knowing that you don't have to deal with the sh*tstorm you have just conjured.

I consider it a statement that you hate me, or at the very least don't ever listen to me, because, for 5-1/2 years, I have repeatedly asked friends and family not to say that to me. I have stated, flat out, on multiple occasions, "Do not say that. Please take it back. It is the worst jinx there is." And, for 5-1/2 years, the worst offender has been Fun Sink's mother, Grandma-in-law; she ignores my pleading at every turn.

So my children spent all day at the State Fair, riding every ride available to the 44-inch and shorter set, admiring the giant produce, eating various junk foods, and seeing the different breeds of goats. Common sense would tell us that they'd be wiped out, but who knows? If I've been asking you for 5-1/2 years to just shut the f*ck up about whether or not they're going to sleep well, please respect my wishes. I mean it now more than ever.

Tonight I said (for the millionth time), "Please stop. Please don't say it. Take it back." And then Fun Sink had to chime in and say, "Oh, but I know these girls are going to sleep well tonight." Did you not just hear me, b*tch? I. Asked. You. To. Stop.

Here's the bad news for you, Fun Sink: I'm probably going to drink wine and have sex with your son anyway.

But until then I'm just bracing myself for the inevitable.