Thursday, September 8, 2011

D- for Effort. Mine and Hers.

Case scenario: Brilliant child. 2 going on 3. Goes to an awesome (if expensive) school. Great parents. Perhaps they're having a bad week. Perhaps brilliant child watched too much tv while parents spoke, hushedly, some feet away. But still, away.


Mother, a loving one. Me, even. Picks up scenario-ed child from school. Day two, she won't eat my food. I don't curse, I coddle (this time). "Baby girl, we can go to the grocery, with the mini-carts, and pick out the food you'd like to each for lunch" She's nearly willing. I nearly win.


Moments away, Baby-girl kicks off her shoes. Demands I put them back on. Real-me-Mama (in my mind) is like, Oh Hell No. This time I'm curt. No to yelling, but base is reintroduced in my voice: "Get up. Get the shoes ON. Walk your body to the door. Say goodbye to your friends". Near compliance.

Near.

Shoes, again are kicked off. I threaten to let her walk to the grocery in one shoed foot, one socked one. She laughes at the idea.

Moments later Baby-girl is pushing the cart through the over-priced-organic grocer. She's temporarily one inch taller on her left side than her right. The padding of that same foot looks from afar like a kitten paw, perhaps a large puppy's mitt. It ain't. It's a wet, and likely cold, socked foot, paired with a princess sneaker on it's partner.

Yesterday, a small child learned: Mummah loves me, but she might could be crazy.

Moral of story: Baby-girl and Mummah were both pushing it. Keep your MF shoes on.


And... just in case you were wondering, she yelled at me in the car too.
Bed began PROMPTLY at 8.


xo

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