I am putting Natalie to bed. Things are going a bit rocky, as they usually do after a day at school. She naps there, and while the afternoon nap used to be an essential for preventing scary Natalie, it's now our nemesis. It makes her wired at her usual bedtime. In fact, we've tried to adjust her bedtime later on the days she goes to school, but it never matters. I swear I could put that girl down at midnight on a school day and still get a fight. But I digress...
Anyway, as I said, things are going poorly. Natalie has asked for more time ("Pretty please, with Hello Kitty on top??"). She's refused to take off her Alice in Wonderland costume ("No, Mama! I have to wear it for the show! The show is starting!"). And now, as I lay down the ultimatums, she's starting to cry. But these aren't normal tears. They are not tears of anger, sadness, or pain. They are a different entity altogether. As I move around her, picking up dirty clothes and throwing them in the hamper, I see her crying into the mirror. Crying to herself. At herself. For herself. She's studying every wrinkle and facial contortion in her own Oscar-worthy performance.
Wise to this, I suggest flippantly that we are going to remove the closet door mirrors. And that's when she loses it for real.
I fear for adolescence with this one. Lord give us strength.
