Listen to me
Kids fucking amaze me.
Lizzie likes to swing (and yes, the irony of that statement is not lost on me - were I to say such a thing in about 20 years, that might mean something completely different, but for now, given the fact that she's a little over two, we'll just assume that she like to swing in the literal sense, rather than "swing" as in "to swing" as in "Raising Arizona" or "The Ice Storm"...kay?)
So yeah, she likes to swing. Pick her up, swing her around, put 'er down. More likely as not, she'll raise her arms and say "Again, Daddy!".
So yesterday, on Celebrate The Slaughter of One Million Indians Day, she decides that swinging is an awful lotta fun. So much so that she wants to swing over and over and over again, throwing tantrums when not getting her way.
Each time, I tell her "one more time, ok? Do you understand?". She nods, says "Understand!", puts out her hands for "one more time". One more time becomes about seven or eight more times and I'm a little tired of it. I stop. She throws a tantrum. I tell her "Lizzie, if you keep doing this, you are going to get a time-out."
Time outs are a known factor here. She hates time outs. Typically, she gets about two minutes of time-out time. Happens about twice or so a day, since these are the terrible twos and she's extremely independant and willful. We're not trying to break her of this, just trying to set boundaries.
So she hits me, another thing we're trying to break her of. I pick her up and say "Ok, time out", which gets the usual "No, Daddy!" as I pick her up and bring her upstairs.
Just about the time I hit the landing, she looks me right in the eye and says "Daddy, listen to me" in a small voice that hits me somewhere south of the cockles and a tad north of a diaphram.
Daddy, listen to me.
Jesus Christ.
These kids....I have no idea if I was being manipulated or if she sincerely thought that I hadn't "heard" her. Probably the former, but you never know. I'd like to think the latter, and that she truly understood the metaphor underlying what it was she just said.
Hell, for all I know she heard either me or Sara say it during a conversation or whatnot. Still, that's a phenomenal amount of inference on Lizzie's part, to be able to pick up just that phrase and get the idea behind it.
Needless to say, she didn't get her time out and she stopped harranging me about "swinging".
Someday, this kid's gonna be fucking President.
Lizzie likes to swing (and yes, the irony of that statement is not lost on me - were I to say such a thing in about 20 years, that might mean something completely different, but for now, given the fact that she's a little over two, we'll just assume that she like to swing in the literal sense, rather than "swing" as in "to swing" as in "Raising Arizona" or "The Ice Storm"...kay?)
So yeah, she likes to swing. Pick her up, swing her around, put 'er down. More likely as not, she'll raise her arms and say "Again, Daddy!".
So yesterday, on Celebrate The Slaughter of One Million Indians Day, she decides that swinging is an awful lotta fun. So much so that she wants to swing over and over and over again, throwing tantrums when not getting her way.
Each time, I tell her "one more time, ok? Do you understand?". She nods, says "Understand!", puts out her hands for "one more time". One more time becomes about seven or eight more times and I'm a little tired of it. I stop. She throws a tantrum. I tell her "Lizzie, if you keep doing this, you are going to get a time-out."
Time outs are a known factor here. She hates time outs. Typically, she gets about two minutes of time-out time. Happens about twice or so a day, since these are the terrible twos and she's extremely independant and willful. We're not trying to break her of this, just trying to set boundaries.
So she hits me, another thing we're trying to break her of. I pick her up and say "Ok, time out", which gets the usual "No, Daddy!" as I pick her up and bring her upstairs.
Just about the time I hit the landing, she looks me right in the eye and says "Daddy, listen to me" in a small voice that hits me somewhere south of the cockles and a tad north of a diaphram.
Daddy, listen to me.
Jesus Christ.
These kids....I have no idea if I was being manipulated or if she sincerely thought that I hadn't "heard" her. Probably the former, but you never know. I'd like to think the latter, and that she truly understood the metaphor underlying what it was she just said.
Hell, for all I know she heard either me or Sara say it during a conversation or whatnot. Still, that's a phenomenal amount of inference on Lizzie's part, to be able to pick up just that phrase and get the idea behind it.
Needless to say, she didn't get her time out and she stopped harranging me about "swinging".
Someday, this kid's gonna be fucking President.