One morning this week, the lil' dude was dressed to kill in a ruffly gray dress, leggings, and a little cardi all set for school.
We moved the processional to the entryway in preparation for leaving for the day, to school and work.
I told my sweet girl to don her Uggs as I donned mine.
That was a fatal mistake.
She screeched out in protest, that her Uggs were atrociously ugly and didn't match her pretty outfit.
She crumpled to the floor, the tears hot and a lot, pooling all around her.
Am I being punked? I kept thinking. I was in disbelief.
My sweet, mild-mannered preschooler, acting like this?
Glittery Uggs, Mama! I only want glittery Uggs!
No more plain ones!
Holy shit, she was for real.
Where was her DAD?
Needless to say, we were late for school that morning.
I hadn't wrestled with 37 pounds of bat-shit crazy in like, forever.
But I got her boots on her.
And her coat.
I took away her birthday.
Yeah, I totally did.
I am That Mom.
In less than a week, she'll be four for real.
Throwing herself on the floor, crying out against the cruel injustices of the world.
I should recant. Throwing herself on the four.
What exactly did I just get myself into?
She was an angel infant. No colic. No teething issues. No sleep stress.
Just chubby, fuzzy baby love.
She was an angel toddler. No terrible 2's. No separation anxiety. No blatant disobedience.
Just crazy, cherubic girly love.
My own Mama said at age four, she sorta wanted to give me away. That a switch was flipped.
Well Mama, don't you go worrying about redemption not being redeemed.
I think she's the cute one, the sprite of a blond who resides in my heart and home.
You can stop smiling now.