Both of my daughters are more like me–in all the ways I dislike myself most–than my sons, and so they are gifted with the power to push my buttons in ever more dramatic ways. Plus, and probably more relevantly, they WANT TO.
Thus, here is Lily, tonight after dinner and an otherwise perfectly pleasant night. She carries a slice of apple in and sits on the couch and looks at me.
You’re not allowed to eat on the couch, or in fact anywhere but the table or the counter. I look at her. I raise an eyebrow. She lolls back on the couch and gazes at the slice.
"I’m not even eating it," she says thoughtfully.
"Go to the counter," I say.
She doesn’t move. Studies the apple. Looks at me. "I’m licking it." She licks it.
Is it any wonder she is in her room? Is it?
—
But she looks so cute…
I’m glad I’m not the only one who has to deal with that. My son is turning into a button-pusher, especially with all things food-related. I am not vigilant enough to keep the food out of the living room. I wish I were; I believe in consistency; I’m just bad at it.