Twelve is No Picnic - and I'm a Bitch

Rugelah has been stressing me. Where is the conscience? The decency? The courtesy? I have been reduced to writing the rules of the kitchen and posting them on the refrigerator because she is so too-cool for the food we buy with the money we earn to feed her face! Everything leads to a pout. I am reading this book on the brain and if you deliberately articulate three positive things about your day you may actually feel better about your self (no it is not a pop-psych book, it is written by two neuro-scientists). The authors do not advocate making up crap that is unrealistic; it is more of a "dinner tasted good so life must be a wee but okay" typa thing.

So I said to Rugelah last night "what are your three things?" and she's all "I only have two." And I'm like gimme a break, but I told her my three anyway. She was very happy about my third one because I went grocery shopping and I got the English muffins she had requested. Nevuthuless, she refused to make it her third good thing because she wouldn't have the opportunity to eat the actual muff until today. Ach. Of course that sounds like a power struggle, because it was one, but I actually managed to seem blase about it.

She is rude these days. Big Brother says something about taking turns and she is aghast. I expect her to make her own breakfast and she looks forlornly at Ball & Chain, who is in My-Little-Girl-Gets -Everything (may I vomit) recovery, and he covers his face with the paper. She finds the English Muffins, sees that they are not white bread (I rarely buy white bread because I am an evil mother), and pronounces "I told you last time that I don't like flavored." Last time? I bought her English muffins maybe once before, back when she was human. Sticking with my blase ploy, and sipping my coffee, I muttered something about there being honey in them. She managed to toast, spread butter, and eat independently. Then, with a reminder, she cleared her plate, spilling only half the crumbs back onto the table.

Stop the presses! No need for me to describe other issues, as there has been a radical turn of events. Holy wrongful stereotyping by rude mother! Dear One Reader - and the dog - Rugelah came home from school, showed me her year book, and apologized! I retract it all, humbly, and admit that I was never as good a person as my dear little Pastry.

I'll keep trying.