Sweet Little Lies

It’s no secret my girl is tempestuous.  So, there are a couple of areas in which my formerly go-with-the-flow laid back husband and I have had to institute a “zero tolerance” policy with little miss Dee.  Namely hitting.  The girl hits peers, dogs, and full-grown adult men indiscriminately and without warning…not to mention me…in my face…it’s like she took the same bitch slap class that Jason Alexander took in Pretty Woman. (I know, that’s so obscure, but it’s literally what I think of every time…like POW!)

It’s not like, non stop, or anything, but she does it with such vigor and intention it kind of makes you want to slap her back.  (I don’t.)

So now when she racks back that little arm, palm open wide, she gets an insta-time0ut.  And to help her understand how to properly hang during a time out (ie: not screaming or coming out of her room) I crank five minutes on the little matryoshka timer in the kitchen and set it on her bookshelf.  If she yells or gets up before it rings, we add a minute.  {OMG, I have butterflies in my stomach all of a sudden writing about my actual parenting tactics on the internet.  I swear if this is some ancient form of torture by kitchen-timer I did not mean it that way.  I leave the door wide open, and she doesn’t scream in terror when I set the timer for dinner.}

So, the night I got back from Milwaukee she was irritated that Scott and I were talking to each other and she hauled off and hit Stinkerbell.   Straight to her room, which she knows is coming because no sooner has her little palm made contact she’s looking at you eyes wide insisting “I don’t want to have a time out.” Music was playing, Scott and I continued chatting, and a few minutes later I figured the timer had gone off and I just hadn’t heard it so I went in to her room to spring her. 

She was sitting patiently on her bed when I entered and asked “Did the timer go off?”

“Yup!” She gleefully replied “Can I come out now?” and I nodded as she hopped down from her bed.

Only just as we were about to walk out the door BRRRRRIIIIINNNGGG!!!! That little timer sold her out.

And she knew it.  She froze, her tiny face contorted into something between shock and a smile. 

“Delilah? Did you just tell me a lie?”

Usually, if she fibs I tell her she’s “telling stories” — a weird superstition about not putting ideas in her head, but this was different.  Her face gave it all away.

“Did you know the timer hadn’t rung?” I asked her?  She nodded, trying her best not to grin “I wanted to come out in the living room” she explained, no remorse.

I couldn’t help but be a little proud — I should probably be ashamed to admit that, but there’s something about seeing nature take it’s course that I always get a little kick out of.  Still, I picked up the timer, set another five minutes, outlining the offense — that she needed to tell the truth about the timer even if it meant her time out wasn’t going to be over. She nodded and took it like a champ, and back out in to the living room I went, my own face somewhere between shock and a smile as I recounted the story for an equally-smirky Scott.  Oh, toddlers.  Your inability to keep your inner monologue to yourself will never get old.

Feed Me Seymour