Every day of the past week, The Kid had to be woken at. Her failsafe wake-up time, in order for everyone to get out of the house in an expedient manner and be on time, is 6:30. Like her father, she doesn’t just get up. It’s a multiple minute process of cajoling, conversation and convincing. Twice, The Wife and I (QUALITY PARENTING ALERT) had to threaten to go to work and leave her in bed in order to turn the table.
Naturally, The Kid was bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and ready to attack the world by 6:30 a.m. each day this weekend. It’s 9 a.m. (exactly) as of this writing. Everyone’s dressed, coffee has been consumed, newspapers have been glanced at and we’re about to make our weekly pilgrimage to Wegmans.
The Kid turns three in eight days, though attitudinally speaking (I just guessed on the word “attitudinally.” I had no idea it was actually a word.) she’s well into them. We’re spending a lot of time learning about consequences to our actions, though truth be told I can’t tell whether she is just beginning to understand that they exist OR whether she’s like her father and realizes that there are consequences and sometimes she doesn’t care. It’s really quite a thing. Yesterday, after having our third birthday photos taken, we went to Target. After asking her twice if she wanted to change shoes and being told no, she removed and flung her flip-flops at me moments after being placed in the cart.
And almost immediately after that, she was my beautiful, sweet, adorable daughter again. Sigh.
We’re also spending quite a bit of time on what I call phase two of listening. In the past, it was responding to when we said yes or no to something. This second phase is more about making a choice. “Layla. If you touch that, you’re going to bed,” or “Layla, if you hit Daddy’s laptop one more time, he’s going to sell you to the gypsies.”
Tangent: As Italian children, my sister and I were often times threatened with gypsies. She and I were told on multiple occasions that we would be given, sold and/or traded to the gypsies. In nearly 36 years, I’ve never seen a gypsy though for a while, I thought a family of them lived in our neighborhood. Turns out they were Greek.
So, that’s where we are. Gypsies, a stack of double $1 coupon inserts from other grocery stores that Wegmans will match, and an almost three-year-old who is secretly developing her battle plan to revolt against her parents. Or, as I like to call it, another Pleasant Valley Sunday.