So I have a confession to make. We totally bought the new Disney Sing It for Wii. It has loads of classic family songs on it, a-la karaoke style. From the lion king, to the little mermaid, it totally takes me back. I knew I Emerson would love it. All of the kids do. We break out a song, and they dance and sing. Only someone takes it a bit too seriously. That someone’s name rhymes with Smashley. The kids have wandered into the next room, losing interest after I grab the mike out of their hand because they aren’t doing it right about three songs, and I’m still rocking it to the Little Mermaid. The next day, before I know it, I’m all, disciplining in song. I think it’s my ultimate fantasy to live in a musical. Where nothing really makes much sense, but people tend to break out in senseless, musical expression every five minutes. The kids are hitting each other, and I’m all, “LALALALALALA don’t hit your brother, and you better not smother… you will be sorry….WOAH WOAH! LALALALALALA try it again…I will make you sit in time out…it will be in the den…WOAH WOAH!” Yeah. I’m THAT mom. (am I the ONLY one totally pumped about camp rock 2???!!!) The closet I-once-worked-at-Disney-and-am-determined-to-make-my-children-live-the-artificial-magic every single day-they-won’t-invite-any-of-their-friends-over-when-their-older-because-I’ll-embarass-the-snot-out-of-them…
SPEAKING of disney…on to my real point…
The other morning, I woke up to tinker bell (the barbie doll) totally standing over my head. No, our toys aren’t possessed a-la poltergeist. I don’t keep certain doors closed, only to open them when I need to replace the laundry in order to avoid floating toys hurling through space at my head. Emerson had, ever so cleverly, placed her new fave possesion precariously near my face in attempt to get the morning party started… And there tinker was, in all her glittery glory. When I opened my eyes, Tinker bell barbie was now an extension of Emerson, in quaint remembrance of a bad 80′s Chucky remake, standing over me in all her plasticesque glory. I half expected her head to start to revolve as if independent from her body… I giggled involuntarily at the scene played out before me, and Emmy immediately fell on the floor in fits of sputtering laughter.
Yesterday, she completely removed her diaper, and ran through the house, giggling. It was as if she was challenging me to a duel. I was to capture the renegade two year old and lasso her with a new one. As soon as that diaper was replaced, it was promptly removed. Again. We’re beginning the process of potty training, and this child is absolutely obsessed with potties and all things nudi related. She also just so happens to be a ticking time bomb of pee. She’s almost like having another dog in the house…but worse than Chloe.
The little chica thinks she’s SO funny.
Thankfully, she doesn’t realize how absolutely hilarious she really is. The frightening part: Emerson was a handful as an infant, and we only thought this demanding, colicky mini person was a total challenge. The throes of terrible two’s and three’s..have just begun. Truly a middle child, she has already finessed the fine art of manipulation. She knows which angles to work, and who to appeal to in any given situation in attempt to get her way. When my parents took her to Chic-fil-a this past saturday, my father scolded her for her non stop wailing. She was begging to play on the playground, but my parents wanted her to eat her food, first. (I know, right? The very idy.) Finally, my dad bluffed told her if she didn’t stop, she would go to time out. Emerson promptly pouted for a good twenty seconds, and then dutifully embraced his arm, with a dramatic and ever so remorseful, ”I LOVE you, PAPAAAAAAAAA!”
We. Are. ALL. in trouble.
Last wednesday morning, Malone was still asleep, and I sat on the couch with the older two, watching a bit of morning teli. Correction: Emerson sat perched on the couch next to me, and Aiden decided to join the party with his lovie. (lovie=orange bear…aka Fred. The kid names everything Fred. I’m not really sure why…) Emerson, who did not appreciate the proximity of Aiden, promptly grabbed Fred, and tossed him to the floor.
With one triumphant motion, the proverbial gauntlet had been thrown.
Angry protests ensued via Aiden, and despite the turmoil she produced…she would not budge. She simply stared, straight ahead, at the tv…a glimmer of a triumphant smirk hinting on her lips. I’m not really sure where she gets her stubbornness. (insert sarcasm THERE) But let’s just say I’ve met my match.
Bring it, ya little spunky pacie nudi freak.
I spent nearly ten minutes, commanding that she apologize, pick Fred up, and return him to Aiden. Do you realize what an eternity ten minutes can feel like when involved in a standoff with a preschooler? She simply refused. I may as well been attempting to address my drywall. She stared militantly ahead…refusing to acknowledge my existence. Even when I removed her from her position on the couch, she simply sat, unrelenting.
That particular Wednesday morning, I didn’t have the energy to follow through, let alone deal, with the toddler sibling drama. I had, after all, only had around three sips of my nectar of life morning cup-o-joe.
So, I resorted to the only logical solution that any remotely sane mother in my situation would do…lead by example, right? Even if it is FORCED example. Before she knew it, Emerson involuntarily became my puppet, as I took her arms, and forced her to (joyfully) pick up the lovie below at her feet…and return it to Aiden. She squealed in protest. I happily ignored her, and enforced my point further, by moving her lips to apologize. “I’m soooooo sorry, Aiden. I was wrong to do that. I LOVE you SOOOOOO much.”
She wasn’t happy.
Emerson’s arms, who now had a life of their own thanks to yours truly, embraced Aiden in full remorse. Aiden gratefully thanked me, but I corrected him, and (ever so sarcastically) asked him to thank his sweet sister for returning Fred on her own accord. I then made sure to throw in a quick mini dance a-la Emmy routine before I triumphantly returned to my original location on the couch. It ended with a nice little booty shake.
Because it’s not so often you’re in control of another person’s limbs, after all.
Don’t mess with me, Emerson dear.
Because: a. I always win, and b. I tend to win with flair.