it’s all normal, really, it really is

One of the kiddo’s favorite things to do with Mommy is to have her nails painted. Which is good because it counts as quality time, and I get to paint pretty nails, since I still bite mine and can’t paint my own.

Last night, she chose the white half from a French manicure set, a dubious choice, but I said nothing and painted.

She came running into her classroom this morning with her coat still on, hands stuck deep in her pockets.

“What are you hiding in there?”, sez Miss Beth.

The kiddo waves her fingers under the poor dear’s nose and Miss Beth plays along, cooing over them.

“Know what the white looks like?”

“What does it look like, sweetie?”, poor Miss Beth sez, still playing along. She has no idea. Neither do I.


*dead silence*

“I look so beautiful!!!!!”, Miss Thing proclaims, twirling her fingers around; oblivious, naturally.

My big whopping helping of humiliation does not end with my swift exit. No, it goes on.

All freaking day.

In the interest of fairness, I always take the kiddo with me to do the grocery shopping, and allow her reasonable requests. It’s never been a problem. And it wasn’t an issue today.

Except at the dairy case, with my back turned, I hear a child’s voice, loud and insousciant; “Will you STOP laughing?!??”. And I turn around. And for the first time, that voice belongs to MY kid. The brat is mine and is leaning over to some lady my age, repeating her demand. I’m the only one shamed, everyone else chuckles while I explain proper social decorum to the moppet in the bright yellow coat.

And we stand in line at the checkout. She doesn’t nag me for candy; why should she? She already had that in the bag two other stores ago. A man about my age is behind me. “What’s your name?”, the kiddo barks. And the guy plays along to the cute kid in the bright yellow coat, just like everyone else she encounters because she has them all fooled. He gives her his name, gamely. “Do you think I’m BEAUTIFUL??????”. Shoot me now. Just do it.

On this very same day, recent changes in behavior are related by me, the mother, to her therapist. And the therapist  just nods her head and tells me she doesn’t think Miss Thing requires weekly visits anymore.

This is, apparently, progress.


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April 2008
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