This morning began as so many mornings do: something invisible and unanticipated displeased Her Royal Terrible Twoness, and we had to diffuse a tantrum. Only today was extra special, because my husband left for work ridiculously early today to minimize his pain in the commuting mess that the rest of the world knows as the Nuclear Security Summit that is convening in DC today and tomorrow. (See the little map? See H Street? The lovely husband's office is right there on H Street.) I was the only bomb detonator on this morning's shift.
Her Royal TT does not care that 38 heads of state are convening in town today. Her Royal TT is angered that when she came downstairs and looked at me and said one withering word: Daddy!, I did not jump to deliver him to her. Instead I greeted her with the sorrowful news that he was already departed and I would have to suffice as pitiful substitute.
She's a daddy's girl, no question, and is not concerned with international disarmament, but rather why her daddy wasn't turning around and coming back home to change her diaper. Because I didn't deserve the privilege, apparently. I'm not offended, kid, but please, come back here and let me wipe your stinky bottom, anyway.
So she tantrummed about her absent father and she tantrummed that I wouldn't let her have M&Ms for breakfast and she tantrummed when I had her put her left shoe on her left foot and her right shoe on her right foot, instead of vice versa. I'm crazy like that. And then she attacked the family room, and insisted she needed nail polish for school. Now, both my girls have a longstanding fondness for nail polish, but I have a longstanding fondness for saying no to screamy children who aren't listening to anything I say. I gently informed my displeased child that I would perhaps paint her nails after school if she had a good day of listening, but that we were not going over the rainbow five minutes before getting in the car, after she already had her shoes on (and successfully on the appropriate feet).
So she threw the nail polish all over the floor and yelled at me that she wanted both cream cheese and butter on her bagel in the car. That might sound like a non sequitor, but it really indicated progress, since car breakfast discussions usually immediately proceed actually getting in the car and leaving. I thought she was deciding to cooperate.
Silly me. We had a relatively uneventful drive but when I pulled up in front of school I saw that her shoes were off again. She had taken her cream cheese and used her finger to rub it all over her feet. I asked her why and she said: I DO MY OWN NAIL POLISH!
She had her revenge on me, and because all's fair in love, war and international accords I decided to have mine on my husband. I called him and reminded him he needed to leave work early today. "No matter how bad the commute is, make sure you're home at a reasonable hour."
"You're in charge of her bath tonight."
Robin begs for you to promise that she will one day turn three and a little bit rational. Robin would also like you to know that she's grateful that her house is currently out of salmon spread. She blogs at The Not-Ever-Still Life.