To put it simply my daughter, Sprout, is a whirlwind. She can be disarmingly sweet one minute and frustratingly, maddeningly stubborn the next. Her flat out refusal to drink from a bottle as an infant remains the definitive example of her potential for obstinacy. Sprout has a lot of traits that are going to serve her well in life, like fierce independence, but are going to turn me crazier than Jack Torrance after an extended stay at the Overlook before she leaves my nest. I was reminded of this during a recent thirty minute crying jag during dinner when she wanted to eat, but refused to walk five steps over to her chair so she could sit down at the table.
After this particular storm had passed, the kids were in bed and our parental duties for the day were complete, WonderWife™ and I stole a few minutes to cuddle on the couch and talk. This was the first time in seven days that we’d been able to do this.
“She’s trouble,” I declared with the obviousness of a nerd who likes computers and Star Wars.
“She's 2,” said WW™. “We still have 3, then the tween years, then she’s a teenager. There is basically no year that we will have an easy time with that girl.”
“We’re going to have to squash this personality,” I said. “It’s like evil Locke on the island. If she gets out, we’re all in deep trouble.”
WW™ nodded in agreement, a rare understanding of a pop culture reference.
“And,” I continued. “God help us if she turns out to be gorgeous and learns she has power over people, especially boys. Cause we’ll all be doomed.”
“So I think here’s what we need to do...We’re gonna have to disfigure her," I said. "Nothing big, just a small scar from her cheek to her ear in order to keep her grounded.”
WonderWife™ chucked, then slugged me in the arm and told me I was awful. But deep down, she knew it was a good idea.