Wednesday, January 18, 2006

Bathtime blues

She throws her head back and howls, a high, piercing cry on its way to a shriek.
I've told her she will have to remove her clothes if she wants to have a bath.
The battles have begun. TV. Books. Toys. Chocolate. ... Broccoli. You never know where the battle line is drawn until you cross it. She stamps her feet and looks up with unimaginable ire, her eyes telling you she's made her move and now it's your turn. A steely glint tells me she fully expects to win.
It's kind of a sad moment for me when I have to pick her up and deposit her in her crib so she can cry it out on her own. I only win because of my size.
It's so hard to be two.
As I close the door to her room, I tell her when she's ready to be calm she can call me and I will come back and get her.
In a few minutes there is silence, and small voice. "Mommy, tum peas."

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