"She'll be two next month?"
"Uh oh! Get ready for those terrible twos."
Get ready? That's like saying "It's gonna be hot this summer" on a 95 degree day in May. Lady, I'm already there. Six months ago things made sense. The child would ask for something, I'd give it to her and all of the creatures of Narnia enjoyed a peaceful coexistence. Now? HA!
"Me, Apple. Me, Apple." (That means "Father, if it pleases you, I would enjoy a small apple from the icebox."
"Here you go baby." (She takes the apple, starts screaming and shotputs it across the kitchen.)
Did I miss something?
"Don't throw stuff baby. What do you want. Show Daddy what you want."
"Cheese. Me, cheese. Cheese."
"Okay, that's all you had to do. Use your words. Here you go."
(Throws cheese onto floor, stomps her feet and runs away screaming.)
At this point my Blackness will no longer allow a child to throw stuff in my house. In my head I have all sorts of Braveheart speeches prepared on how I'm gonna beat the hell outta her. The ones that go, "It's kids in Africa wishing they had someone to send them 28 cents a day so they could eat this cheese. Before I even start talking my brain realizes that the only time I've actually hit her is when she tried to lick the surge protector (It's a long story). Even then she just "Debo'd" me like, "You want some of this old man?"
Wait a minute. Now that I think about it she's Pinky from Next Friday.
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Who sent you? I'm tryin' to tell... SHUT UP![/caption]
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