Confessions of Castro's chauffeur.

Youngest and I have a routine for Monday mornings - we drop Oldest at school, run by the dry cleaner's to leave Dear Hubby's shirts, and then we drive thru Chick-fil-a to share a #2, 3-count, with an orange juice.

What can I say, he's a sucker for round hash browns.

Per usual, I set his aside to cool, then hand them back upon polite request as we make our way home. This morning, little Hugo Chavez (technically not a dictator, but come on) felt the need to tell me which particular hash brown he would like. Well, I guess I got out of his "order" and meltdown ensued.

So I pulled a little Soup Nazi on his booty, because honestly, I'm tired of this.

"No hash browns for YOU!"

He whimpered the rest of the way home. I steamed.

I love my Youngest with all my heart. Honestly, some days I'm weighed down by the guilt over the amount of patience I have for his shenanigans versus his older brother's.

But Mama has cracked.

Blame it on the head cold. Blame it on the catering I had to do all last week. Blame it on the fact that there's only 24 more shopping days left, but I'm done.

I don't want to be told not to wear my jacket in the house. I'm cold!

I don't want to be told which direction to go. I'm the one in the driver's seat!

I don't want to be told where to sit or where to stand. I'm the ADULT!!!

I dusted off my copy of "The Happiest Toddler on the Block" last week. I'm fairly certain I bought it at about this time in the Oldest's life.

Acknowledge. Repeat. Acknowledge. Repeat. Acknowledge. Repeat.

I got it. But with all due respect Harvey Karp, M.D., I'm adding another step...Acknowledge. Repeat. Tequila shot.

Hell, if I'm going to be doing this all day, I might as well make a drinking game out of it.

I know Youngest will grow out of this stage soon. He must. I clearly remember Oldest going through this, but it HAS to end because eventually I wanted to have another child. And I can guarantee you, if Oldest was still acting like Mussolini Mini-me, I would have banned all marital relations just in the off chance that my pill might fail.

So as I go through today, I will try to remember my mommy boggy friends, and WWMBFD?

On one shoulder, I have the pure white Angelic Mom telling me to display my talent for shadow puppets and whip out the organically grown carrot stick and homemade hummus snack I lovingly made this morning.

On the other shoulder, looking all Beyoncé in her tight red bodysuit, I have Devil Mom telling me that this is the perfect time to drop a rufy or two in his milk, throw him in the crib, and go bar hopping for the rest of the afternoon.

My solution falls somewhere in the middle.

I'll wisely pick my battles. I'll count to ten. I'll take a deep breath.

And if all else fails, there's half a bottle of white wine in the fridge left over from Thanksgiving.

Let's all bow our heads and give thanks.