peevish mama

That is a quote. From Doctor Dash about Devil Baby. Yes, he actually said it. And after he said it, I gasped, then nodded, then added “Yes, yes, we must. She’s out of control. She’s a total wild child.”

At this moment she is standing next to me demanding mac and cheese. It is three o’clock in the afternoon. Here’s a peek at her food diary for today and you tell me whether I need to make her mac and cheese right now, which, incidentally, she will not eat. Not one bite. My making mac and cheese for her is nothing more than a symbolic gesture to prove that she rules me. It is an offering to an angry and cantankerous god who eats out of plastic bowls and sippy cups.  

8:40 pancakes, peach slices

9:10 bagel with strawberry cream cheese (ordered by herself at club snackbar) – ate one half.

9:40 box of Lucky Charms (ordered by herself at club snackbar) – ate the marshmallows. 

12:00 grilled cheese and french fries (ordered by me at club snackbar) – took zero bites of grilled cheese and ate a handful of fries.

12:40 vanilla frozen yogurt – took a bite, saw Saint James’ ice cream sandwich and demanded one causing us to leave the pool in a ball of flames because I wouldn’t let her get a second desert. Seriously, I had to carry her out of there, kicking and screaming bloody murder, everyone staring at our little parade of chaos and destruction. The towel around my waist came loose from all her writhing so the last look all the club ladies and lifeguards got was of my bathing suited wedgied ass and Devil Baby’s pale, chubby, thrashing legs. Lovely. 

2:20 peach slices – she only agreed to these after harassing me for a popsicle for fifteen minutes. I finally left the kitchen and went upstairs, only to turn around and find her stalking me, her chubby mug saying “peaches” in a deceptively sweet voice.

3:00 I’m not doing it. I’m not making mac and cheese right now. I’m not going to do it.

Any hopes I had for her third birthday ushering in an era of peace and cooperation have been smacked around, hogtied and thrown in the Mississippi tied to a bucket of cement. I cannot even believe I was hopeful, nay, naive enough to change her name to Angel Baby a mere few months ago. What a rube I was. She is naughty with a capital N. She is spitting and pinching and doing all sorts of devious and downright mean things. Today she threw Supergirl’s cheeseburger in the garbage when she got up to get water. Then when we came home she broke the little purple cross Supergirl had gotten at her kindergarten graduation. I’m not even going to begin to entertain the symbolism of that gesture. I gave her a huge time-out (the third one of the day), but not only is she showing no remorse, she’s haranguing me for mac and cheese.

I’m not going to make it. I won’t. I won’t.

postscript: reading over this, I can see my mistakes. Why, you may be asking, would you let her get frozen yogurt when she didn’t eat her lunch? And you would be right to ask. I have no answer aside from the worn out nub excuse, and I know that’s not a good answer. I need to get Circus Lady over here to put the smack down. She has this rule which always impressed me: if you get up from the table, you are done. Like DONE, done. As in, don’t come asking for food. And she meant it. But for how long? If they come back for food in an hour do you give in? Two hours? I need to figure this shit out asap, before she drives me to drink . . . more.