The other day Kaya came from nowhere and body slammed me and baby bump (mound, mountain, whatever). She basically just bounced off the large protruding ball and did no harm except maybe to her own ego. Still, she needs to learn boundaries. Respect. So I sit her down and calmly explain that it is not nice to body slam mommy, her soon to be brother or sister, daycare kids or dogs. She absorbs my words carefully, nods her head then states “Only bodyslam daddy!” Yes, sure, that works.
Later I go to high-five her for a job well done at something. I get no fives, only a confused look on her face and this retort. “Mommy doesn’t high-five. Only Daddy.” Alrighty then.
On my last days off I suggest we go out and practice her run-bike. She refuses. When Daddy gets off work however, she is giddy to be going out riding bikes with daddy.
Some things are daddy’s responsibility. That’s cool. I get it.
Especially when the vacuum is sitting out and I am told emphatically that this is Daddy’s vacuum. Right on.
But yesterday topped it all. I am in the kitchen making Kaya breakfast and getting her lunch ready for daycare. She wakes up that day needy while I wake up needing space, freedom. Kaya is still under the impression that my space is her space no matter the time, place or mood. So she’s clinging onto my leg, Riley is pacing back and forth trying to get food droppings, and Kaya’s baby doll stroller impedes my every step. I sure as hell can’t see my feet at this point, but I can feel a toddler on them, a doggie licking them and a stroller running over top of them.
“That’s it!” I yell, “Everybody OUT OF THE KITCHEN! And that includes your dolls Kaya!”
Kaya grabs her stroller and marches out of the kitchen. She has on her pouty, offended, somewhat traumatized face when she looks back, one tear rolling down and gives me a flash of the teenage years,
“Not Mommy’s kitchen.” she practically spits, “It’s Daddy’s kitchen.” then storms off.
I laugh outright, followed up with a proud “Hear, hear!”