Saturday, July 21, 2012

Battle on Brentwood.

It's quiet now, but don't let that fool you. A battle has been waged all day here. You can see the casualties all around: the kitchen looks like a small animal has been slaughtered, the hamper in the laundry room has been ransacked, a haphazardly parked stroller blocks your only exit, and the dogs are hiding in the corner.

The battle lines were drawn early today. 5:30 a.m., to be exact. "Dah" is out of town and we're just at the end of new teeth coming in. That's just enough change to create a ripe environment for battle.

After breakfast and a lot of coffee for me, we headed outside where the dogs were the first victims. First they were chased by high-pitched squealing and giggling. Then when they succumbed to their fatigue and probably ringing ears, they were mounted like horses and treated to more squealing.

Once the Dog Conqueror grew tired of her victims, she headed inside, demanding to be fed. But the meal prepared for her was not suitable to eat and apparently only suitable for tucking away in the pocket of her bib.

A trip to the store was uneventful. I think she was simply planning what her next strategic move would be. "Should I scream as loud as I can on Aisle 10 or wait until we are in the car?"

The battle resumed when we got home. This time, she demanded a snack..."cheese". I hand over a cheese stick, turn my back to get her a drink, and turn back to find her empty handed. I still haven't found that cheese stick.

We battle for nap time. She does not yield. Instead she drags out and unfolds her stroller, banging it into walls, furniture and my toes. Finally she parks it in front of the door. My guess is it's to prevent my escape.

Clean, folded clothes that were in the hamper were thrown all about the house. Dog food was pulled out of the container and into little bowls. I'm still not convinced she didn't eat some, even though she didn't have doggie breath.

Still no nap, and the battle rages on.

Dinner time rolls around and I think I am going to hit a home run with pasta, her favorite. Sure it's a bit messy to eat, but not a big deal. Unless, she decides to fling it everywhere except in her mouth.

We battle for her to eat a few bites. Actually we battled for just ONE bite. The majority wound up on the floor, the windows, the counter top 15 feet away, her ears, my hair.

And it was then that we both looked each other square in the eye and yelled, "aaaaaaggghhhhhhh!" simultaneously.

In some strange way, I guess that was how we called a truce for the day. A truce, because neither one of us is capable of surrendering. We are too much alike - too stubborn, too independent, to give up.

And now, after all the pasta sauce is cleaned up, and she's had her bath, and we've read Goodnight Moon, and we've sung "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star", I watch her sleep and think I am the luckiest person ever to have this angel in my life.

I still haven't found that cheese stick, though.

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