Originally published February 15, 2007
That whole excitement of the new bed, you know, the one that always ends up with her face down and fast asleep?
It has been replaced with the moosh staying wide awake for hours kicking the walls.
Just because she can.
Thankfully (knock on wood) she hasn’t figured out how the doorknob works. That will be a sad, sad day. I re-entered the room twice during the nap attempt, the first time to make sure that the giant thud I heard wasn’t the moosh employing WWE techniques from the top of her dresser onto Mickey Mouse. The second time was a last desperate attempt at convincing her that if she didn’t nap Dora and her precious little backpack would be snatched by Swiper and thrown in Sneezing Snake Lake never to be heard from again.
Whole lot of good that did me, it’s as if she knew I was lying.
I left her to think about Dora’s fate while I went down to catch the last few minutes of “Drunk Co-Eds Caught on Camera” on Dr. Phil. Instead of screaming, squawking or even better yet, sleeping, the moosh decided to yell.
“I LOVE YOU MOMMY. MAMA! I LOVE YOU! MOMMY, I LOOOOOVE YOU. PRETTY MOMMY? MAMA! I LOOOOVE YOOOU!”
Who could keep that much love locked up in a bedroom to do something so trivial as sleep?
Then there’s the whole time out thing.
She gets time outs. Not very often, but often enough to know where they take place, how she ends up there and for how long. In the beginning it was a whole lot of bawling. Then it tapered down to whimpering, just pitiful enough that if I were less of a tyrant I could easily give in. Time outs don’t happen much anymore, but warnings are still rampant. She’s at a stage in life when she’s trying to figure out when, who and how hard she can hit before it turns unacceptable. What she doesn’t get is that the answers are:
and not at all.
Yet she tests the waters, especially on me.
The other day she asked if she could practice knife swallowing with my 11 inch bread knife and I said no. She decided to test her slapping boundaries. She hit my knee and yelled “NO!” She got the mom look, a serious “NO HITTING.” back and a warning. She pondered this for a moment. Then she hit me again, no yelling this time, just a sturdy smack on my thigh. Before the first twitches of movement even traveled through my body to send her to the bottom stair she turned and bolted, right to the bottom stair. She sat herself down, announced “TWO MINUTES!” and started apologizing in the sweetest little voice you can imagine.
TWO WHOLE MINUTES of
“sorry mom, sorry pretty mom, I sorry mom, I love you mom sorry. Sorry mommy, sorry. Sorry? I’m sorry. Pretty mom, so sorry.”
ARE YOU KIDDING ME?
I had to sit stone faced and ignore this little chubby kid because in all reality she was in time out and I did have to carry it out or I may been seen as weak, and for any of you who have been in possession of a toddler know that when they see a weakness they attack that weakness like flies on poo.
Outside, stone faced disciplinarian. Inside, poopy piles of weakness.