It Only Looks Like I'm In Charge i

I promised Dictator a donut on the way home the other day. We pulled up to the drive-thru, settled on a vanilla dip with rainbow sprinkles, and pulled forward to pay. Which is approximately when I realized that I didn’t have my wallet. 

Do you know how hard it is to explain to a three-year-old that she can’t have her donut because of something as silly as money? 

She cried all the way home, and I promised that we would go the next day, which resulted in the following reminders:

Upon waking: “Mama? We go get donuts today? And you bring your wallet, okay?”

When we left for the sitter’s: “Mama? Your wallet in your purse?”

When I dropped her off at the sitter’s: “Mama? You got your wallet? For donuts?”

When I picked her up at the sitter’s: “Mama? You bring your wallet wif money for donuts?” 

In line at the drive-thru: “Mama? You have your wallet for pay the money for my donut?” 

Cripes, kid. I said I was sorry. 

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Our house sounds like a test-facility for “your mom” jokes lately.

We’ve been teaching Dictator that the Husband and I have parents just like she does. She seems to have grasped that Grandma is also my mother, but whenever we talk about Grandma’s upcoming visit, she asks, “Oh, your mom?”

She’s also been throwing out completely random references to my mother, and this morning, the first words out of her mouth were “Where your mom?” (Grandma doesn’t arrive for a few more days.)

The best, though, was earlier today: I was grumbling that the yogurt in the fridge was old, and Dictator said, “Oh. Like your mom?”* 

Poor Grandma. 

*When asked to clarify, Dictator said, “Like your mom like yogurt like you like yogurt?” Nice cover, kid.

Dictator joined a mini soccer program that’s sponsored by Tim Horton’s (I guess? All I know is that her little yellow jersey says “Tim Horton’s” across the front. And that she’s bloody adorable in it). 

The words “I just played. I’m thirsty” are printed upside down on the inside front of the jersey. Apparently, if you take your mini soccer phenom into Tim Horton’s after practice, and she flips up the bottom of her little yellow jersey, Tim Horton’s will give her some apple juice.

I don’t know about you, but I, for one, recognize the value in learning the art of lifting one’s shirt in pursuit of free drinks. So thanks, Tim Horton’s, for ensuring that Dictator and her teammates will have 15 years of practice before they ever set foot in a bar!

Dictator asked for some apple juice. I just poured her a big ol’ glass of chicken stock. 

I think it’s safe to say we’ve hit Health Canada’s recommended maximum sodium intake for the day.

Sometimes, I’m a yelly parent, and while that’s always been the case on occasion, this has been happening more and more of late - Dictator does something that under normal circumstances, I’d respond to in a perfectly reasonable, here-are-the-consequences-for-your-actions way, but more recently have taken to just yelling, “No!” or “What are you doing??” or something equally reactive and not at all constructive. All this does is reduce her (and just as frequently, me) to tears. 

So I’m working on it.

Tonight, she and I were making cards, and she was happily stamping her little star stamp all over her star-stamped card, when she reached over and stamped her little star smack in the middle of my card, which was (until that point) star-free. I had a rough day and was really disproportionately upset about that little star in the middle of my otherwise starless card, but I bit my tongue, took a deep breath, and told her that she was only to stamp on her projects, not anyone else’s, unless she was told it was okay. 

“Okay, Mama,” she said. And then her little lip started to tremble, and she said, “Mama, you scared me,” and then she started to cry. 

You guys, I scared my kid because I didn’t yell. She is so used to the yelling that it scared her when I was controlled and reasonable. That crushed my heart. Crushed it. 

Worst mother ever. 

Sitting outside Dictator’s “ballet” class and listening to the techno version of Sweet Child of Mine coming from the step aerobics class next door.

My ears are bleeding.

I’m actually really impressed, even I can’t do this.

Only one of our cats is smart enough to run when Dictator’s around. 

This is not the smart one.