“Give me my muffin!” she bellowed again, holding out her hand to further emphasize the demand that I relinquish the muffin, as if using the word “my” somehow automatically shifted ownership from me to her.
“Open up your mouth and I’ll give you a bite,” I countered.
“NO!” she screamed, “Give! Me! My! Muffin!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Daddy intervened, “Who said it was your muffin?”
“I want my muffin! Give it to me! I want it! It’s mine!”
“If you want a muffin I can get you a muffin, but you need to go sit down at the table and ask for one nicely,” I told her.
“I want MY muffin!” she screamed, “That’s MY muffin!”
I raised the half-eaten muffin to my mouth an took another bite, needlessly taunting her.
“Noooo!” she wailed, “Don’t eat my muffin! Give it to meeeeeee!”
“No,” I said simply, “It’s not your muffin. It’s Mommy’s muffin. And you’re not talking nice.”
I took another bite.
“Noooo! Don’t!” she protested, “Don’t eat it! Don’t—it’s my muffin! It’s mine!”
“Last bite,” I said, bringing the muffin to my mouth. I paused when she started screaming again.
“Don’t do it! Don’t eat my muffin! No, no, no! That’s mine!”
“I can get you one for you,” I offered again, “But this one is Mommy’s”.
“Nooooo! I want that one! Give me! Give me! Give me!”
I raised my eyebrows and popped the last bite in my mouth, somewhat snarkily, then licked my fingers.
She unleashed all her rage and came hurtling towards me, limbs flaring, teeth bared, screaming like a banshee.
“You! Ate! My! Muffin! You! Ate! My! Muffin! You…!”
My life flashed before my eyes.
I would have been a goner for sure if Andrew hadn’t come to my rescue. He lifted her up by the waist and carried her off to her room uttering a simple,
Her arms and legs were still going a hundred miles an hour and she screamed the whole way. In the end I got a nice apology, complete with a hug and kiss, and she got her muffin—after she asked nicely.
And that is life with a two-year-old.
It’s a darn good thing they’re so cute the other half of the time…