Not that one, this one.

For what seemed to be the thousandth time that hour, my dear child told me "Not that one, mommy, this one!" when I did something in her service. Not that cup, this one. Not that shirt, not those pants, not those shoes, not that fork, cup, spoon, plate, juice, stroller, phone, book, pyjamas, step stool, toothbrush, socks or toy, but THIS ONE. No, no NO, Mommy! No!

I finally handed her the cup and told her that I'm the boss, and she has to do what I say. She said "No, Mommy, I'm the boss." I stared down at her from what I hope to be an intimidating height and said "I'm the boss, and I will be the boss until you are the Mommy and then you'll be the boss." She said "No, Mommy."

So I stepped up my game. I told her that once she was the Mommy, she would learn the cruel irony of what "being the boss" really means. She cocked her head at me in that baby bird way that she has, and I continued to explain the concepts of sacrifice, perseverance and delayed gratification. (It keeps me going to think about her being a cool 25 year old that finally realizes how amazing I really am.)

Who is the boss, really? Did I want to go to Babies R Us today and make a complete fool out of myself while praising her to the sky for picking out a potty seat? Not really. I would much rather be at the Blarney Stone, drinking beer and smoking. And that, as any parent will tell you, is the most basic of examples.

I do things All The Time that I'd really prefer not to. At the swimming pool, I'd love to be one of those perky breasted young women or even one of those paunchy older men that can sit in cheerful isolation with a book and a glass of water. No, I'm waist deep in the water, staring off into space while darling child splashes around and shouts "Look at ME! LOOK at ME, Mommy!" Arg.

Of course I love her, of course I would lie down in traffic, chop off my arm, give every last dime for her. But I didn't do my homework - I didn't realize that it would be like this, a constant exhortation to Use Your Inside Voice, Say Please, and Because I Said So.

I told husby the other day that I couldn't wait until I was fifty and could have my life back. I admitted that I would most likely be old, crusty and grouchy at that point in my life and would not know what I wanted to do with myself. He said fifty wasn't old, and didn't argue about my disposition. (He's not just pretty, folks, he's smart too.)

Needless to say, darling child did not give a crap about my explanation about the finer points of irony. She hollered at me through dinner, told me it was my birthday and I should eat a hot dog and that she was very dirty and needed a bath. Bath time brought more hollers - not this crayon, that one, this one is wet I need a new one, I'm NOT done yet and it ISN'T time to get out!

sigh. I'm sure there is a message in here about looking back on this and laughing. There is always the insidious, grim reminder that I'm going to MISS this when it is gone. Then there is the "wait until she is a teenager, then you'll know what real pain is" message that is so utterly infuriating. I'll get to all that in a minute, right after I clean up the dishes and make the coffee.

Right now I'm just accepting that having a toddler is a pain in the ass.