Oh No She Diiin't!

My darling R. is one of those little spitfires, a tomboy in a Winnie-the-Pooh Pull-up. She's a kickin' butt and takin' names kind of kid. She don't take crap from noooooobody. Not even me. The most hysterical, endearing thing is she, for the most part, is the sweetest, most affectionate child on the planet. She's always kissing and hugging.....And laugh, well her laugh is completely infectious. It comes so easily and she has one of those adorable belly laughs that makes you stop in your tracks and turn around to see what's so funny.

Most of my friends and family think I am a total liar when I tell them R. stories. And believe me there are many. Few have witnessed the wrath of R. All they see is a tiny, smiling preschooler with big beautiful eyes. They think, "How could she possibly do those things?" At 3 1/2 years old R. is only 27 pounds and is still wearing a size 2T. "She's so petite", they say. "She's such a cutie, so quiet and meek."

Sure, she's ALL of those things and more. She can also spin her head around a full 360 degrees and projectile vomit green pea soup.

Piss her off and it's like flipping a switch. A switch to the underworld. A place you hope to come back from alive. A.....okay, stop me, I think you get the point.

Yesterday she hit her brother, T. I'm not sure why she clocked him, maybe he looked at her wrong, or maybe he was sitting in the chair she has designated as HERS. Anyway, I placed her in a time-out for breaking the rule of keeping our hands to ourselves. I set the oven timer for 3 minutes, which is her age and supposedly what you use as a guideline. I told her she needed to sit there until the timer was done. She proceeded to climb down from her perch. I placed her back on the chair and said, "Every time you climb down I will add another minute." She climbed down again. I placed her back and added a minute, she heard the beep, and immediately knows I've added more time. She scowls at me. Her feet hit the floor a third time. I put her back on the chair, beep, another minute. You can now see the wheels turning in her head. She's got an idea. She then spits at me. Yes, that's what I said, "SHE SPIT AT ME!" And she must have had a generous supply of saliva saved up because beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep. 15 minutes are now on the timer. She stops the lugies, she has either figured out it's not working or has dried up.

She sits down, clearly miffed. She clenches her fists, grits her teeth, and her whole body stiffens up. She glares at me and yells, "MOMMY I HATE YOU!" "Good!", I replied, "That means I'm doing my job!"

I must say I was somewhat surprised to hear my daughter exclaim those words at such a young age. I always knew they would come, I just thought she might be at least 12 or 13. Today I begin my training. I'll be lifting weights, jogging, taking boxing lessons, and maybe even some martial arts. If little Miss Thang doesn't get some of her anger management issues under control, she and I'll be duking it out on the front lawn when she's a tween!