January 9, 2012

I Can't Blame Her...or Take the Credit Either

She was sitting on the sofa this morning, contentedly watching Kick Buttowski as I finished up my primping and scraping together low-cal soup and a piece of fruit for lunch.

I hope you've got your coat ready to go. She popped up and raced in her room to get it. Came back and plopped back down again.

Well, I hope you've picked up those socks I saw on your bedroom floor. (I knew they were still there from when I told her to pick them up the night before) Rolled eyes. Popped up again. Back in a flash. Plopped back down.

So, there aren't any clothes down that should be folded or hung up, right? (Saw them on her shelf, still there from when I told her to fold/hang them yesterday afternoon) Sighed. Rolled eyes. Popped. Back. Plopped. Sighed again.

Then we argued about her not wearing a thin nylon jogging jacket with her frog winter hat and gloves to school. (Seriously, she looked like a psychotic pink amphibian.)

It wasn't the coat, the socks and not even the nylon jogging jacket with which I was frustrated.

I was frustrated with Jamie and me for caving in too easily too often.  We work. We're tired a lot. It's no excuse, but its the truth; and she's sooooo good at hammering -- hamm-er-ing -- away at our will to say "Do it now" or "Not right now" or  "Because I said so" more often. (BTW: That is a valid reason, if you must give one)

After an uncharacteristically quiet ride to school, she kissed me goodbye as she exited the car. On the drive into the office, I kicked myself for falling down on the job and ruining her chances of having a normal, productive adulthood.

We talked it all out once I got home from work. Then I checked her homework, and saw this:

Yep. She'll do just fine despite us.


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