Upon finding out that Halloween is soon and she could eat all the chocolate she wants, my Viking baby Bridget made this face:
Because she loves spooky stuff (Jack Skellington is her personal hero) and really, really likes chocolate.
This was welcome news, because Bridget has been on a real tear lately. Having lots of baby angst about baby issues, I guess.
Just the other day, she was stomping around the house, grumbling under her breath like a crotchety old man: “Pshh… NO Chuck E. Cheese. NO chocolate cake. Brontë wants SPACE! Cat won’t TALK to me…”
And it’s been tough for me not to laugh at these disgruntled toddler ravings. I just don’t feel right about openly mocking her pain. Especially because cats-not-talking has been a real sore point.
Like on Wednesday afternoon, when she was lying next to me, sucking her thumb, watching My Little Pony. Her enormous cat Raj jumps on the couch and plops down on her chest, his nose three inches from her face…
She pets him with her free hand for a second before knotting up her eyebrows in an angry, cartoon “V.”
I figured it was because she couldn’t breathe with a thirty-pound stripey cat cutting off her air supply, but she hadn’t flinched. She just kept staring him down, harder and harder, until she finally pops her thumb out of her mouth and yells, “Raj, why you NOT TALK!?”
(That’s got to be frustrating. All the cartoon cats talk on TV, like pretty much every other animal, and she’s known Raj for three whole years… yet he refuses to say a single word.)
Plus, her desserts have been judging her. We were eating some leftover chocolate cake for breakfast yesterday (because that’s the kind of responsible mother I am) when Bridget points out two chocolate chips on her slice.
Bridget: Look, mama… eyes!
Me (not quite seeing it): Oh yeah? Cake eyes?
She starts to take another bite before violently throwing the cake back on her plate.
Bridget: NO LOOK AT ME, CAKE!
Fighting the Establishment
And lately, Bridget has been sassing her big sister too.
I was driving Brontë home from Kindergarten when Bridget kept going on and on, from the backseat, about “Tie-Back-Oh.”
What? I finally asked: “What is Tie-Back-O?”
Brontë explained: “She means ‘Twilight Sparkle,’ mommy.”
(OH. One of the My Little Ponies. The purple one who likes to read and hangs around with that dinosaur, Spike. Any current parent of toddler girls will know exactly who I mean.)
Then, Brontë set about fixing her baby sister’s pony-naming issue. It makes sense, because she wouldn’t want her sister to go embarrassing herself in serious toddler discussions about current issues.
So, she applied some of her Kindergarten teacher’s language techniques:
Clapping her hands on each syllable, Brontë said, “It’s TWI (clap)- LIGHT (clap)- SPAR (clap)- KLE (clap)!”
“Okay let’s try again, Bridget. Twi—Light–SPAR–KLE! Now, YOU!”
And Bridget said, “Okay: PEE… PEE… POO… POO!”
“NO!” Brontë screamed… as Bridget convulsed in giggles.
(I have to wonder if firstborn children more readily understand the parental perspective because they get all that baby sibling sass when trying to be helpful.)
So… with her breakfast silently judging her, her cat giving her the silent treatment, and her big sister talking down to her with her fancy-schmancy college techniques, Bridget is truly looking forward to the annual chocolate-binging fest.