She’s like a Sour Patch kid. Just less tasty.

20120626-145629.jpgOh, hai.  I like to eat fake ice cream cones and wear high heals.  I do not like to wear pants.

I.

I . . . I don’t even know where to begin.

My daughter.

My sweet, beautiful, funny, intelligent daughter who is my mini-me.

If she’s this bad as an almost-three-year-old, Lord help us when she turns into the quasi-human species known as The Teenager. Everything is so.dramatic. Everything hurts her feelings. If you tell her that her shoes are on the wrong feet, one day she might laugh and run off and play and the next day she might dissolve into a puddle of tears.

These are the fits/tantrums/meltdowns she has had this week. Reminder: It is Wednesday. And I only saw her for about an hour this morning before I had to leave for work.

  • When I picked her up from the babysitter’s house on Monday, “Moooommmmmyyyy? Did you bwing me a dwink?” “No but you can have one when we get home.” “Waaaaaaahhhhhhh!!! But!I’m!SO!fuwsty!!!” Cue 20 minutes of tears and pouting.
  • Monday night I was getting her ready for bed and I told her that she needed to put on her jammies. “Nooooooooo!! Jammies awe fow babies! Me not a baby!” More tears and pouting.
  • Yesterday morning I made breakfast for the family which was egg and cheese sandwiches on a biscuit (yum!). She decided just wanted an egg. Scrambled. Okay, no biggie. I make her the egg and when I put it on a plate in front of her, I get a look of horror in return. “But me wanted a snamnich wike my daddy!! Waaaaahhhhhhh!” Again, tears/pouting. So I quickly throw the egg onto a biscuit and add a piece of cheese. “Now me not hungwy.”
  • My mother-in-law and the kids hosted a tea party for my kids and a couple of neighbor girls on Tuesday afternoon. My mother-in-law was trying to get Adrianna excited about it and showed her the box of brownies they were going to get to make/enjoy. Was Adrianna happy? Nope! She.Wanted.Them.NOW! More tears/pouting.

But do you know what is maddeningly infuriating about all of this? It’s almost always immediately followed up with something sweet. Like Monday night after she threw a fit because only “babies wear jammies”, she wanted to tell the baby goodnight. So she hiked up my shirt, stood on her tippy toes and said, very sweetly in my belly button, “Hewwo baby bwoder or sisser. It’s your big sissy, Adrianna! I wuv you! Take a good nap so we can pway tomowwow!!”

First they’re sour. Then they’re sweet.

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Disclaimer: Please don’t misunderstand, when she starts to behave this way, she is disciplined according to the infraction. It’s usually a time-out so she can cool-off and regroup but if a swat on the tooshie is warranted, she gets one.

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