Tomorrow, Zoë leaves for what I think is her fourth sleepover at her grandmothers. Not a day too soon. The child is killing me.
Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure that PMS symptoms don’t start until there’s actually impending menarche. And even with the frequent onset of early puberty for girls nowadays – damn hormonal meats – I’m thinking it’s still a little early for her to be quite this bitchy. Because this is like Rosie O’Donnell, plus early 90s Susan Powter, plus hmmm… your mother-in-law, combined into a megalodon of bitchiness. Squared.
You know, 2 out of 3 of those are fine by me (on a good day), but the fact that her manners have flown out the damn window with her former sweetness and common fucking sense makes me a little resistant.
She bit me today. The first time in over a year and completely unprovoked, bit me. That brought forth the raging inferno of terror called Immediate Time Out, wherein she proceeded to screech like the demon I know is festering within her, kicking walls, throwing punches in the air. Yelling at me – wait, this is my favourite – “I’m not going to care about it!“
Who is this wild child? Have I given her too many choices, and now she’s retaliating by serving me with the ultimate anti-authoritai personality? 1 Does she need more hugs? Drugs? Thugs? Some pugs?
I have no clue why her brain has suddenly decided that the following scenario was how the world should work:
Her: Mama, I told you. You have to give me chips!
Me: Okay, that’s enough. I’ve been listening to this attitude for days now and it’s more than enough. You are three, not fourteen and there is no reason that you need to speak to me like that. And if you choose to, there is no way that I will reward it with a treat like chips. Got it?!
Her: Mama, you’re wrong.
Me: Excuse me?
Her: I’m not three.
Me: Yes, you are. I was there. The day is etched upon my memory. You’re three and in the summer, you’ll be four.
Her: I said I’m not three.
Me: Okay, then.
Her: I’m sixteen. On my birthday, I’ll be seventeen.
Me: {ponders if there is an actual possibility that the whole being-trapped-in-a-child’s-body thing could happen. I mean, if Hollywood can think of it, in so many different ways – Big, 13 Going on Thirty, Freaky Friday – then why couldn’t it actually be happening now, in Vancouver? Decide that even if that’s the case, she’s still being too bitchy.}
Needless to say that when she’s picked up tomorrow, I’ll be waving adieu very excitedly, and getting drunk immediately after slamming the door.
- if you didn’t hear that in Cartman’s voice, we have to break up. It’s not me. It’s you. ↩
