Battle Royale

How is it that in a battle of wills with my 36 year old, educated, slightly imposing husband, I am resolute, I am a rock- an immovable mountain of stubborness. But in a battle of wills with my 5 year old daughter, I am but a tiny little crumbly molehill of resolve? Emerson, at a whopping 38 pounds, has mastered the art of wearing me out and wearing me down to the point that I have nothing left but to give in to her ridiculous and unfounded logic. Maybe it is the product of being raised by two lawyers or maybe she has some freakish DNA mutation that allows her to gain mind control over those she wishes to dominate, I don't know, but I don't have this problem with anyone else.

Heretofore, Carson had "the face". I called it his "anything face" because when he arranged his precious features just so, I would do anything for him that he asked. "So, you want to go to Starbucks right now for a $4.00 cup of hot chocolate even though we have some right here in our very own cabinets?" Insert "the face". "Ohhhh, alright, let's go, you adorable child!!!" However, after years of succumbing to "the face", I have somehow become immune to its once unstoppable powers. I think it may have something to do with the fact that Carson over played his hand a bit and started using his X-power for evil instead of good. Over time, hot chocolate became trips to GameStop which became endless needling for expensive games and just like that, the bubble burst and I came to my senses. However, worry not, all is not lost for young master Carson as Grandma is still under his spell and regularly spends her weekends carting him around town happliy granting his champagne wishes and caviar dreams.

Okay, so back to Emerson and her Jedi mind control. Today it was the clothes. She has particular ideas of what she wants to wear and usually it involves wearing all of favorite things at once. A Hello Kitty sweat pants, an American girl shirt (hot pink belt on top of the shirt) and silver dress shoes is her idea of fasssshhhhionnn (insert disdain and eye rolling for the full effect). Throw in a random purse full of chapsticks and playing cards and you have got yourself a mall worthy outfit.

She picked out a navy blue too small skort and a navy blue uniform shirt and purple paisley hightops. Forget the shoes, I was not about to go to war over those (that is a losing battle any day of the week) but I did object to the blue on blue number she was planning on wearing to school today. I pointed out how the colors weren't even the same shade of blue and she burst into tears. (The tears, oh the tears she can shed) "But they matchhhhh". True enough, so whatever, wear the ding dang blue shirt then. I give up.

Which is precisely my problem, I always give up. As we all do it seems. No matter what everyone eats for breakfast, Emerson only eats Toaster Strudel. Every. Single. Day. And if that wasn't enough, she insists on have a "letta" inscribed on her strudel each day, to which she only knows. So we slavishly ask every morning, what letter do you want today- usually it is M (for mama) and E (for Emerson). Which ironically spells out ME. As in the whole world revolves around me, me, me.

And if was just her breakfast or her outfits, I may actually stand a chance. But it is everything, all day long. Her baths, her hair, her clothes, her food, her milk, her drawings and the list goes on and on. So much drama with this girl. And the tears, you would not believe how many tears are shed if so much as one crumpled up drawing makes its way to the trashcan. I'm such a sucker for the tears.

No tears: "Mama can I sleep in your bed tonight?"
Me: "No way, you have a great big beautiful bed and you are a big girl, so nite-nite, love you."

Tears rolling down that sweet cherub face: "Mama, I think there are weetches in my room and Bubba won't let me sleep in his bed and I'm sooooo scareddddd (sobbing now)."
Me: "Okay, but you better pretend you're asleep when Daddy gets here or he's gonna make you go back to your room. Nite-nite, love you."

My mother says I am paying for my own dramatic youth. To which I have no reasonable reply because I do remember being a giant headache for my parents until about age 16. But, with that in mind, how am I to ever make it nine more years held hostage to Emme's wild ideas and dramatic mood swings? I have heard that it only gets worse. Yikes. The thought makes me want to cry a little. Unfortunately, at 36, crying doesn't do you much good anymore.