I'm terrified of my daughter. She's terrifying. Maybe you've met her and you heartily disagree. Or maybe you're going to decide to be honest and acknowledge that underneath those delicious cheeks and behind those big, beautiful, sparkly eyes you can just begin to make out the sharper edges of an iron will and budding control issues. Can you see it? Just to the right of that wonderfully affectionate heart and due north of the shamelessly protruding belly. That's it. I call it the Seat of Terror.
Several, far too many, times a day, I find myself hesitating. Before I suggest breakfast, before I suggest getting dressed, before getting myself dressed, certainly before announcing the plan for the day. Because you just never know what The Boss is going to think about your big ideas, and if she doesn't like them, well, you may just find yourself looking straight into the eyes of hell.
It doesn't happen all the time, and sometimes not even every day, but I've been on the receiving end enough times to salivate when I hear the bell. Of course, I know it's (most likely) a phase and that it too shall (most likely) pass, but perspective is an easy thing to write about when she's engrossed in the 87th screening of Finding Nemo. For all her cuteness and brilliance and je ne sais quoi, that little package also packs a crapload of fury in her jeggings.
Here's what I need from you. First of all, I need to write about it so that it becomes a humourous little anecdote rather than a death spiral. So thanks for that. Secondly, I need to hear from other grown-ass adults who are terrified of their own tiny monsters. Those of you who cannot identify with this phenomenon need not reply. It's not that I'm one of those jerks who feels that anyone who doesn't admit to sharing my problems is a liar, or that everyone needs to experience my particular brand of agony in order to earn the title of parenthood. It's just that right now I need to link arms with my sisters and brothers who have been broken under the tyranny of a similar regime, to know that I'm not alone and that perhaps there are enough of us to mount a revolution.
I can see it now:
Occupy My Toddler
Who's with me?
We're not quivering in fear yet, butZo has certainly developed a distinct determination. She's still very much a quietly polite little girl but she's got one helluva judgemental look on occasion, and a stubborness that can be exhausting. Dad's made winning the little wars a personal matter for at least a year now, and so her Donald Trump moments are few and far between, but she does like to practice being insistent.
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