It has been happening often over the past few weeks. The indisputable proof that my daughter is my child. Don’t get me wrong, I know she is my daughter, I was present during the labor after all. But its the little things that prove she is in fact a miniature me.
For example, she is a sarcastic little brat. Yup. That’s right. I called her a brat. With her big brown eyes, and sassy little mouth, she shoots out a retort that leaves you momentarily speechless. The way she props her little hand on her hip, and somehow manages to look down on you, despite being a good 2ft shorter than you. The way the sides of her lips tilt up in a cheeky smirk, and her little eyebrows raise in a perfect arch. She. Is. Me. Well except the eyebrow thing, I cannot for the life of me make my eyebrows do that.
Last night, the little she-devil got into the fluff. I noticed she disappeared into the kitchen for a good few minutes when it suddenly struck me. She was getting into stuff. Not just any stuff, the fluff I had just used for their hot cocoa. (Because fluff is way better than those puny marshmellows SwissMiss gives you) As I move, loudly I might add, towards the kitchen, she pops her head out with an innocent smile.
“What were you doing?”
“Looking at stuff.”
“Oh? What were you looking at?” She lets out a dramatic sigh and looks to the ceiling.
“It’s a kitchen, mom, I was looking at kitchen stuff.” She’s not even 5 yet, she’s not allowed to call me mom! I am still mommy, dammit!
“So the fluff on your face just magically got there?” The dramatic look drops off her face, and she immediately tries to hide the evidence.
“I didn’t eat it.” Uh huh. Magic fluff. At least she didn’t blame her sister, I view this as an improvement.
As I investigated the kitchen, it would appear she hadn’t been able to get the cover back on the fluff in time. So I put on my angry mom face, hands on hip, and stare her down.
“Are you supposed to stick your finger in Fluff, or any container of food for that matter?”
“And should you lie about it?”
“No.” At this point she is rocking a pout. A full pout with the big doe eyes. Not falling for it. So I tell her she can’t have dessert. The pout morphs. It becomes something I am growing very accustomed to. Pure sass.
“Really mom? Like you don’t eat fluff?” Color me surprised! I do sneak a bit of fluff every now and then! Darn her! After a quick agonizing moment of that sassy, sarcastic smirk, I finally find a retort.
“I use a spoon! Now go wash your hands!”
Kayla: 1….. Mommy: 0