Tag Archives: daughters

3 1/2 going on 13

Some days I’m really happy Morgan still has her emotional outbursts. It’s the “fall on the floor and cry like there is no tomorrow for no reason” outbursts that remind me she is still three. She’s my little girl. My sweetheart. My preschooler. Oh gosh, I only have one preschooler left. Oh my.

On the mature end of things she’s precocious, questioning, tall, articulate, and she keeps up with the five-year olds. It’s so hard sometimes to remember she’s only a preschooler.

There are some days her actions completely surprise me. The other day took the cake.  A 16-year-old boy working at Target passed us, leaving her completely doe-eyed with a soft smile on her face. Really? He was 16!!! 

Afterward we were driving on Broadway, and some big burly bikers pulled up alongside us. Morgan rolled down her window, gave them a soft wave, and smiled while saying “Hi boys” in the sweetest voice she could muster. The problem? She looked so grown up and wise when she did it! She knew she was going to hit a soft spot with those burly bikers!

If 3 1/2 is going on 13, I can’t imagine what 13 is actually going to be like. We are in for some trouble!


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Sassy Diva

Leave it to a life changing event (aka, taking away the beloved binky) to bring out my little girl’s diva-like qualities. I was nervous about bedtime last night and how she’d do without the comfort of the binky, but I definitely wasn’t prepared for her diva-like powers of influence.

We got to bed fine. She was a bit upset she didn’t have it, but after I reminded her they were all gone and she was a big girl, she seemed satisfied. I read her stories (which she proudly read aloud with me – clearly the binky had limited her verbal skills till now!), tucked her in, and left her to slumber.

An hour later her brother decided to have a meltdown on his way to bed (Murphy’s law, which naturally follows moms around), and woke her up.

So I spent the next hour and a half going up and down the stairs.

“Mama, I need new pull-up…mama, I need new pull-up…mama, poopies in pull-up”.

Up the stairs I trudge, turning on her light and changing her pull-up. Only to find that the pull-up she was wearing was dry and clean. Tuck, kiss, night-night.

“Mama, I wet. I wet, mama. Mama, I wet. Mama, come on, I wet.”

Up the stairs I trudge, turning on her light and checking her PJs and pull-up for any signs of wetness. Finding none, I explain that it’s time to go to sleep and that mama is going downstairs for sleepy too. Tuck, kiss, night-night.

“Mama, I hurt. I hurt, mama. Come on, mama, I hurt.”

OK, so yes, this is the one most moms would probably respond too, but I was onto her game. She wasn’t crying or in distress, nor had I heard her bump against anything. So I laid and waited.

“Mama, cover me up. Cover, mama, cover me up.”

Once again, I trudged up the stairs, covered her up, explained that it was time for us both to go to sleep, and that mama was going downstairs, to sleep for the night, and wouldn’t be back up. Tuck, kiss, night-night.

We were one hour and forty-five minutes into the charade. Then it started. The crying and complete melt down. My husband came down from putting my son to bed (another sleepless character last night) and asked me how much longer I was going to let this go on.

While there was no ill-intent in his question, there was plenty of it in my answer “All night if it has to. I’m not going back up there again. She has to sleep!” Ok, before you start thinking I grew a backbone and started being all hard ass rule enforcer, let me say that my heart was breaking for my little girl.

About ten minutes of the drama went by and then came the demands. She put on her most demanding, strong-sounding voice and started up:


I listened for a few minutes, wanting to see what would come next.


Umm, ok, time for an intervention? As I was debating the proper approach, she must have rethought her own approach to the situation. Becuase next I hear (in the sweetest sing-song voice EVER):

“Mama, wakey-wakey! Where are you mama? Wakey-wakey!”

She’s learned early that you get more bees with honey. Out of bed I jumped, and headed up to her room to lay down with her and give her the comfort she was missing from her binky. As she drifted off quickly into a deep slumber, I realized, there was no place I’d rather be. No matter how I got here.

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A fly on the arm

My daughter is afraid of bugs. And somewhat fascinated by them as well. She can’t see one without making a big deal of it “Mama, a bug. Mama, a bug.” You get the picture.

The other day a fly landed on her arm at the playground. Pretty innocuous. Apparently, not to Morgan. She jumped up on my lap and sat there, holding her arm, as though it bit her (and we know it didn’t). She didn’t cry, just sat there stunned and shocked.

Knowing better than to make a big deal out of anything potentially negative to a 2yo, I played it down. I gave her a quick hug, told her that flies are harmless, and sent her back out to the playground.

Apparently, I wasn’t sympathetic enough. I watched her walk around to the other moms on the playground (moms we didn’t know!), holding her arm and talking about the bug. She approached 3 different moms, who rightfully had very little reaction (whether or not they could even understand her 2yo jargon is unknown), and finally gave up.

Oh, my little drama queen!

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