One short week ago, if you had asked Ali how she felt about this whole Dog Thing, she would have probably said, "AAAAACK! HATE! HATE! They're trying to eat me! They want to destroy me! Dogs! Bad! AAAAAAACK!" and then she would have hissed for fifteen solid minutes.
She's starting to come around.
Today was . . . well, actually, this whole week has fallen under the category "Challenging." Today was most certainly the most intense day of them all, but they've all been rough.
For your father and me, that is. Not for you. You've been perfectly happy as you've doled out the . . . uh . . . challenges.
I'm not sure what crawled into your brain over the past weekend, but there seems to be some sort of alien worm inside your head, giving you ideas. It seems to have given you the mistaken impression that we negotiate in this house. We. do. not.
If I ask you to eat your dinner, the correct answer is to open your mouth and shove some food in it.
If I ask you to go upstairs and get your pajamas on, I expect to see your little behind in motion, headed towards your room.
If I tell you (I don't "ask" when it's a safety thing, little miss) to stop balancing and swinging from the arms of the two couches, I expect your feet to hit the ground immediately.
If I tell you to pick up your toys before someone trips and gets hurt, I want to see a flurry of action, with toys finding their way into their storage boxes.
I do not want to hear, "But I'm just . . ." I don't want to be met with silence. I don't want to hear about how you'll do it, but only after you've done fourteen eleventy bazillion other things. I don't want to have my requests met with half-assed attempts at negotiation.
I do not negotiate with terrorists, not even tiny ones. Period.
Miss Alexis, you've already lost the privilege to do pretty much every fun thing we had planned for this weekend. I really hope you evict that evil worm from your brain tonight because when you don't have fun? I don't have fun. So, how about we try inflating my ego and then making me think I'm imagining things? How about you try answering with, "Yes, ma'am" a few times tomorrow? It's a sure way to make me think I've completely lost my mind. And isn't that the goal? I mean, isn't that why you Tiny Terrorists do what you do?
Oh, and don't even think about coming to me in 30-some years and complaining about how your sweet little daughter thinks everything is game for negotiation. I'll tell you that paybacks are a bitch and and that no, you can't have an apple instead of eating whatever I made you for dinner.
Much love always and forever,
Your Mother AKA She Who Would Have Been a Lawyer if She Had Wanted to Argue All Day Long