Y'all know I love children. I loved the 63 pound three-year-old who punched me in the stomach. I loved his five-year-old cousin who spat water in my face. I even loved the sixteen-year-old whose least pleasant personality liked to call me "Mother-Effer." (Which, really, doesn't make sense.) Today, I met the child who I would put on the plane back to Russia.
The first ten minutes were fine. She was beautiful with her long curls and her fluffy bow. She did her speech eval. She charmed me with her pronunciations of chocolate, Lucky Charms, and marshmallow swirls. Then it was time for Miss Dibbs to play her games. She-Devil arrived. She announced, "No, I'm not playing no more games. I'm not. I'm not. I'm not." We asked nicely. She wailed. I told her she could have candy after the games, because, you know, all I want is to finish my test. She wailed. I told her firmly that she was at school, and that she would sit in her chair and do what I said. She said, "No, I won't." She ran out of the room and began to scream. She screamed about riding down the elevator. She screamed about her Disney Princess shoes. She screamed that she didn't want to get in the car.
Then, I saw where she got it. She looked at her mother and screamed, "I want a toy. Toy, Toy, TOY!" Her mother told her she couldn't have a toy unless she was good all day. It took every ounce of restraint not to get in that little bow-haired, baby pink face and say, "Toys are out of the question, princess. You ain't good." That mother was seriously considering a reward for Miss Demon. No wonder she does it. I don't think I'm letting her into preschool. I think I'm sending Mama to parenting.
I'll tell you this: if she comes to live with Miss Dibbs, she'll have a nice Chi Omega tattoo where the sun don't shine (that's the kind of paddle I have.) But I'll bet she won't tantrum anymore.
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