I’ve said before that The Terrible Two’s don’t exist in our house. My children suffer, or more appropriately–make me suffer–from The Terrible Three’s. And it seems that Carter is spending her last two weeks of Three-dom getting as much of it in as possible.

Don't be deceived by that face. There's a reason we call her The Tiny Monster.
Don’t be deceived by that face. There’s a reason we call her The Tiny Monster. This is just step one of innocently squishing her brother beneath that foot.

Piss and vinegar. Available only in Carter-sized containers.

She asks questions, but she rarely listens to the answers. She fights with anything moving, whether alive or blowing in the draft of the air conditioner. She’s sneaky. Behind those long dark eyelashes, even darker eyes dart back and forth through a waft of golden blonde hair wisps, just daring someone bigger to mess with her. Double the damage if you ever project the idea that you might also be smarter than she is.

Poor Eliott, already, mere emotional debris on her Path of Destruction.

Every single move is calculated with Carter, so giving directions must be a very specific and well-thought process. Reactionary discipline is completely unfazing. And consequences? Someone find something this girl cannot live without. It seems her stone cold heart warms only for kittens, the one thing I just don’t have on hand.

There’s just nothing like a two-and-a-half-foot-tall, barely-thirty-pound three-year-old holding me accountable for every single thing that comes out of my mouth.

Hey Daddy, today Mommy said punch Eliott in the face.

Mother of the Year moment right there. Even context in this instance doesn’t soften the truth.

Today I explained to the girls that they could watch a movie while I cook dinner. Not a minute before. Rain or shine. As long as they leave me alone in the kitchen.

After her nap (which she may or may not have spent pole vaulting in her room, the room above the couch upon which I was attempting to also nap), she came downstairs, and did that thing that she always does when I’m sleeping. Moms and Dads, you know what I’m talking about.

She hovered.

When I finally dared peep my one eye open to find her face mere inches from mine I need you to smell her innocent breath as you hear her deceptively innocent little munchkin voice.

Are you going to get Isaiah. He’s crying.

Yes. (Face still in pillow. Dread starting to work its way into my still sleep-sand filled body.)

When you get him, can we watch a movie?

I already explained the movie situation, Carter. I’m not repeating it.

You said we could watch a movie today.


What does I’m not repeating it mean?

I’m not saying it again.

(Now whispering.) Mommy. What does ‘repeating’ mean?

Why am I not on drugs? I ask.

A Typical Conversation With The Tiny Monster

2 thoughts on “A Typical Conversation With The Tiny Monster

  • Your brother did the same thing – only in the middle of the night, when he got up out of bed and came into our room to MY side of the bed. Yes, the first time, I jumped “out of my skin”. After that, I knew it would be a nightly ritual and I always calmly awoke to his nose pressed against the “pained” expression on my face. He outgrew it…

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