And The Emmy Goes To…

Natalie at breakfast: “Mommy, I want some yogurt.”
Me: “Sure! Just finish your toast.”
Natalie, vehemently shaking her head: “All done with toast! I want yogurt!”
Me: “I’d be happy to give you some yogurt as soon as you finish your toast.”

I failed to realize I was setting heinously cruel expectations for my little girl. After all, I happen to know she adores toast. Plus, even if her good-natured taste buds had unexpectedly changed in the middle of breakfast, she only had half a bite left. Slathered in her favorite strawberry jelly, no less.

At any rate, Natalie found my words unbearably harsh and became emotional. And by emotional, I mean wracked with heartbroken, life-is-over sobs, tears flooding down her little cheeks. I knew I couldn’t hand over the yogurt without creating one of those monsters children who scream and writhe in agony through grocery store aisles after their mothers refuse to buy them Sugar-Frosted Sugarbombs, but Natalie was a truly heart-wrenching sight.

Just when I thought I was going to start crying, she stopped, sighed wearily, and told me, “You’re hard, Mommy.” Battle over, she promptly ate her toast.

I passed over the yogurt in a mild state of shellshock, because — holy cow — the inconsolable weeping was fake? This girl deserves an Emmy for Best Breakfast Time Drama. And holy freaking COW, what am I going to do when she reaches puberty? [12-year-old Natalie at breakfast: “But Mom, I’m all done with milk! I want Jack Daniels!”] At least she’s realizing now that I’m a “hard,” relentless dictator who is devoid of human kindness and pity even when her daughter is in the [fake] depths of despair.

::Cries::