Like alot of four year old girls, the attitude spewing forth from my sweet little Bug is monumental at the mo.
Sassy and headstrong to begin with, it's become increasingly difficult to try and get her to do what we ask of her without being met with ... well, a bitch attack.
It's been foretold that Thursday's child is full of hands-on-hops-stamp-of-the-foot, my Super Sweet 16 'tude but this shit is whack and has kicked up another notch.
I dare say it's a combination of the almost grown up four-going-on-fifteen, "I'm a big girl now" syndrome and "Oh my god, why won't they treat me like a grown up dammit? Oh, you wanna play that game do you? Fine, I'ma act like a total badass!" disorder. Stop sniggering, they're both technical terms ok?! Whatever the case is, I have found myself battling an overwhelming desire to look into boarding schools, or even just ship her off to Grandma's.
Lately, I have found myself dishing out threats in a bid to combat the 'tude. You know, the usual warnings of "If you don't stop doing that, you are going to bed" and "Cut it out now or I am going to sell you on the black market". That sort of thing. The only problem is well, 99% of these threats have been empty ones and I'm pretty sure my kids cottoned onto that fact by the time we were like the second threat in.
Not anymore kids, not. any. more.
This morning, we were supposed to attend prep at 11am. For those of you who haven't wrangled the education system, prep is essentially transition to kindy for 4-5 year olds. We have one 90 minute session every Thursday, and Amelia loves the idea of it. Hell, the kid's eyes light up when you mention the word 'homework!' Yes, I know that won't last.
10am - Ask Amelia to change into a pair of trackies. Explain that a short, summery dress coupled with a jumper is not exactly the best attire for a slightly breezy, 14 degree day. Am met with the usual "But I like this dress", "I just want to wear this, ok?" and 101 other assorted excuses and expressions but shake my head, give her a firm no and head off to shower.
10:30am - Emerge from the bathroom, expecting to find one appropriately dressed little girl. Instead, I am greeted by a trashed bedroom and one defiant, devil-girl-child, hiding under a blanket on the floor amongst every item of clothing she owns - still in her dress. Give a deadline of 10 minutes to get dressed in the clothes laid out for her and to pack everything up or she's not going to prep. Queue shocked expression as I leave the room.
10:31am - Can hear a "YOU'RE MAKING ME SO ANGRY!" being shrieked from the devil's lair.
10:40am - Find said devil-girl-child still sitting on the floor, swathed in blankets and playing with her Chipmunk figurines. Seemingly oblivious to what was said 10 minutes prior.
10:41am - Suppress extreme, hormone and exhaustion induced rage and tell her in my low, dangerous "I am about to lose it and shit will get nasty" tone of voice to get up and get dressed NOW. Leave room before lose absolute control and bust a cap.
10:42am - Enter kitchen. See bottle of Kahlua smiling at me. Want to cry. Seek out block of Cadbury Hazelnut instead. For it's calming properties, of course!
10:45am - Return to the devil-girl-child's lair to find child smirking like a brat at me. In the middle of the room. Amongst the blankets and clothes. In her dress. Lord fucking help me.
10:46am - Silently scream foul obscenities at child, maintain even voice as I tell her she is not going to prep and that if she smirks at me just one more time, I am going to gaffa tape her mouth shut. Order her to tidy her lair and not to emerge until every single item is packed away.
11:54am - Devil-girl-child is still in her room, fuffing about and tidying up at the rate of one item per three minutes. On the upside, am pleased to note that the aforementioned smartass smirk has been put to bed. For now.
It has become a battle of the wits in this house. Mother v. Daughter. 25 year old v. 4 year old. Big biatch v. Baby biatch. Both of us vying for the title of being the boss. It ain't too pretty.
And the worst part?
The only response I ever get from the Manchild is "And where do you think she gets this from?"