Two Saturdays ago I locked myself in my room as a last-ditch effort to escape my out-of-control 4 year old. Not one to be outdone, she proceeded to try to kick down the door--all while still screaming like a maniac, of course. That's when Nic, who will be quick to try and tell you that we were both out of control, finally intervened.*
But let's rewind.
We have a growth chart by our kitchen. Norah is constantly wanting to measure herself. And Lettie. And Mom. And Dad. Which is fine; that's what it's for. On Saturday she wanted to measure her purple Hello Kitty from a birthday trip to Build-a-Bear two years ago.
The problem started after I wrote "Hello Kitty" next to the nearly 2-foot-tall mark:
"No, Mom. That's not how you spell 'Hello Kitty!'"
"Um, yes it is. See? H-E-L-L-O..."
"NO! That's not how you spell Hello Kitty! You spelled it wrong!!"
"Norah, I didn't spell it wrong."
"YOU SPELLED IT WRONG!!! *collapses on the floor* You're supposed to spell it C-N-O..." *yells other random letters she's learned in preschool*
"Okay, then you come write it how you want."
"No! I want YOU to write it!"
"I already did!!!"
"YOU SPELLED IT WRONG!!!!"
After years of having to learn how to deal with me, Nic thinks it's hysterical when I have to try to rationalize with an irrational person. You guys, Norah can be so irrational these days! Each time it happens I swear I'm going to handle it better. And Nic was home for this one, so I was determined to show him that I could get things under control. In hindsight, yelling back at her about how I get paid money to know how to spell things was probably not the best choice. But you know what? I was done talking about it.
She won't stay in her room when she's throwing a fit. There's no audience. Which is why I ended up locked in my room with her banging down the door. At least I could ignore her in there. That's when Nic clearly had enough of the two of us trying to work it out. He has a way of helping Norah calm down when I can't. I'm pretty sure it's called patience, which I clearly lack.
And Norah has little patience for me. Apparently, I'm always doing it wrong, as you can see from this recent Facebook post:
There's not really a moral to this story, other than my daughter and I need to learn how to communicate differences without freaking out at each other. Wish us luck.
But for the record, I totally spelled it right.