How do I love thee? More than I like you, sometimes

During the Pterodactyl’s third year, I took him to the pediatrician with some alarming symptoms.
His temper tantrums had come to resemble volcanic explosions, complete with rumbling and the spewing of liquid. He was completely unreasonable and occasionally downright mean (not unlike how he is now, in fact, at age 4).
And his little voice was so raspy, it pained me.
Dr. M examined him from head to toe. “Well,” he said. “He’s hoarse and raspy because he screams so much. And he screams so much because he’s 2.”
So the diagnosis was that my boy had a terrible case of the Screaming Meanies. It’s apparently a chronic condition because he still suffers from it. It doesn’t make me love him any less. But let’s be frank: there are lots of times when I’d rather not be around him.
Having children is a constant battle of contradictions. Your heart expands impossibly, and sometimes feels like it might explode into a millions shards of love. It can be painful. I remember biking over a bridge when the Diva was a baby, and suddenly becoming paralyzed with the fear that the Diva might grow up and fall off that bridge one day.
Yet the love, ever-present, can be tempered by....resentment?....no, let’s call it extreme frustration and exhaustion. Just yesterday, I left the house to walk the dog, and the Tyrant pressed her tiny nose to the living room window and threw me kisses goodbye. She smiled her best smile, and did a little dance and waved at me, never taking her eyes from mine. As I walked the dog, I was struck with the possibility of being hit by a car and never seeing her again, and my love for her felt like it was the blood in my veins, running through my body and nourishing it with life.
Ten minutes later I found her naked, eating lipstick and throwing dollhouse furniture at the Pterodactyl. The blood-love turned to gelatin and I suddenly needed a long solitary nap.
We love our children so much. And there are times when we can’t stand them. It’s the part of motherhood no one tells you about - that your 7-year-old will say “whatever,” when you ask her about her day, that your son will learn to incorporate the words poopy, weener and pee-pee into every lullaby he knows and that your toddler will learn how to climb up on the counter, open the medicine cabinet and help herself to some Tums. Or that while you’re on the phone, the children will decide to play a violent rendition of musical chairs to Lady GaGa’s Poker Face and the baby will beat a lizard to death with a diving stick.
Last night, we took the trolley down the beach, and the Pterodactyl, obsessed with all things that move, was beside himself with excitement. “Look, Mom! I see a lake!” he shouted as we rode past the retention pond behind Target that we pass every single day. His sense of wonder made me weak with adoration. Later that night, at a restaurant, he stole his sister’s crayon, dropped his lemonade on the floor, drew all over the Diva’s picture, and locked everyone out of his room when we got home. Classic Screaming Meanie.
But he’s my Screaming Meanie, and I couldn’t possibly love him more.