My three-year old, who is currently channeling her alter-ego – Princess BitchyBritches, is laying on the couch screaming and crying because I won’t get her a banana. Before you get your panties all in a wad about me starving a three-year old and being a cruel mom, let me just say that the banana in question is on the coffee table, right in front of her. However, she can’t reach it from her reclined position without actually moving and therefore wants me to get up from my chair (where I am clearly writing important crap), walk over there and hand her the banana that is just out of the reach of her finger-tips. Am I going to get up and get her the banana. Hell no. Is this going to turn into a war of wills between my stubborn three-year old and her “Girl, you ain’t no more stubborn than I am and I got thirty years on you” Mama. All signs point that way.
This is my morning. Welcome to it. We do this almost every morning, in one fashion or another. This morning it’s “I can’t reach my banana.” Yesterday, it was “But I don’t want the food that I asked for!” It’s always something. She’s too much like me… lazy, stubborn and fiercely argumentative. I’m so proud.
Oh, now she’s moved on to something else. She just called me upstairs to help her find some shorts. I let her dress herself for the most part. As long as what she’s wearing is weather-appropriate, I could care less if it matches. It’s just not worth fighting over. Who cares if she wants to wear her Abby Cadabby costume to the grocery store? Do we give a flip what the people at the grocery store think? Nope. Sure don’t. And besides, if you can’t look at a child dressed in green leggings, bright pink shorts and three different shirts, none of which match the shorts OR leggings and figure out that she dressed herself, then you’re a freaking idiot. I don’t have time for freaking idiots. Or what they think. By the way, everyone is a freaking idiot (at least, that’s how I automatically categorize anyone looking at us funny.)
So, the storm has now passed. The clouds are parting. The wind is dying down. She’s eating the banana. She’s watching Dora (thankyou baby Jebus for Dora). She’s content…. for a second. It’s only a matter of minutes until the next random meltdown over the next random, ridiculous thing. I’m going to enjoy it until the sky darkens again and the screaming rain starts falling. Oh, but why can’t I be a three-year old? No one ever takes my crazy, screaming rants as just another part of the day and accepts that it’s just part of who I am and that it’ll be okay again in just a minute. Okay, maybe that’s an unfair statement. If you asked my husband and coworkers, they’d probably tell you that I’m delusional and that that’s exactly what they have to put up with. But we’re not asking those bitches, now are we?
Disclaimer: I talk smack. I talk smack about people that I love because I know they can take it. I don’t really call all of my coworkers bitches (just some of them). And besides, most of them are very much like me in that they recognize their inner bitch, embrace her and let her fly whenever necessary.