Sometime Mommy Deserves a Drink

The thing is, she stepped on the cat's paw, twice, and giggled about it.

She took her crayons out of their bin and drew on her easel instead of on her paper.

She spit a mouthful of milk down her front with a smile.

Everything I asked her to do, I had to repeat at least seven times.

She threw a tantrum when bubble time was over.

She kicked me in the chest with her plastic Tinkerbell heels.

She tried to feed the cat a veggie chip, and instead of picking it up when I asked her to, she stomped on it.

When it was time for a nap she played and cried and made a general nuisance of herself until I read her three long books to lull her to sleep.

She smeared ketchup all over the back of my pink t-shirt, and then got mad when I wiped her hands off.

When her Dad asked her to behave she all but mocked him.

At dinner she tried to Jimmy Superfly Snuka me in the booth.

On the way home from dinner she cried, screamed and spat.

When I said it was time for bed she yelled NOOOOOoooooo and stomped her feet.

Oh, AND, it was ONLY Tuesday.

And then, on the way upstairs, she nuzzled her dirty, tear streaked face into my neck and said "Baby, mama, PEASEEE. Baby."

And that was it. It was all forgiven.

Not today, but a perfect example of the mixture of Tinkerbell Heels, cat paws and At.ti.tude.