Meany Mc Poopypants

Our family believes in snuggles. Lots and lots of snuggles. Every night at bedtime, I snuggle separately with each of the girls for 10 minutes. Sometimes we have Double Baby Snuggle Time which always ends up looking like a WWE tag team match minus the folding chairs. Tonight, however, was slated as a standard one-on-one event. In sorting out who got First Snuggle and who got Last, I first had to figure out which of them had slept with me on the last night my husband worked. Since my memory rivals that of a goldfish, I keep track of this critical data in dry erase marker on my bathroom mirror.

The Youngest, dragging her stuffed pig by its ear across the tile floor, became disconsolate to discover that it was in fact she who had last shared my bed, which meant she got Last Snuggles tonight (and her sister would get to sleep with me tomorrow).

“I did not sleep with you Tuesday!”, she pouted, her dirty blonde hair stuck to the wisp of ketchup left on her cheek from dinner.

“Oh, but you did,” I replied. “I remember quite clearly, because I was very tired from clinic and you woke me up at midnight complaining that your butt was itchy and you flopped around in the bed like a fish for two hours”, I recounted quite matter-of-factly.

“That wasn’t Tuesday!”, she squawked, the pig swinging menacingly by its much abused ear.

“Yes, it was, honey. I remember it very clearly. I was exhausted on Wednesday because you couldn’t sleep”, I explained, as my body drooped with the remembered fatigue.

“Liar!”, she screamed as she ran to her room, the pig ricocheting off floor behind her. She glared at me one last time before slamming her door haughtily.

Not wanting to prolong the bedtime ritual any further, I called The Oldest to my room and we enjoyed our snuggle time relatively uneventfully.

When we were done, she headed to her room, and I back to The Youngest’s still closed door.

“Do you want to snuggle?”, I offered once more.

“Are you going to apologize?”, came the petulant reply.

“I am sorry you are upset, but I am not wrong about this. I will not apologize for being correct.” I stood in the hallway blankly staring at the giant crack in her door made by one of her sister’s kung fu demonstrations.

“Then NO!” she shouted back at me. The door reverberated with the impact of what I can only assume was a Minecraft Exploding Creeper being launched at it.

“Ok, goodnight then. I love you” I said as I turned my attention back to the Oldest who had taken advantage of the intervening few moments to log on and start playing Minecraft on her computer. She reluctantly calmbered up the ladder to her loft and began asking questions. Any parent knows this tactic–engage the mind of Mom in order to stay up just a few minutes longer, no matter how dull the subject matter. Tonight’s riveting topics were “Why We Clean For Passover” and “What Taxes Are and Why We Pay Them.”

Just as I was launching on a masterful explanation of the IRS’ definition of “dependent”, The Youngest marched into the room, officiously handed me a scrap of paper, turned on her heel and left without a word. Stopping mid sentence, I looked down to read her missive.

“Huh.” I said. “I think she called me a hippopotamus,” I looked up at the The Oldest quizzically.

“Let me see,” she said, reaching for the scrap. “I can usually read her writing”. She stared at the paper for several seconds, turning it this way and that, then shrugging, handed it back to me. “I have no idea what that last word is,” she admitted. We exchanged goodnight kisses and I stepped back across the hall.

I knocked tentatively on The Scribbler’s door.

“What?!” came the reply.

“What did you call me in this note?”, I asked.

“Meany McPoopypants!” she shouted.

“Ah, right then. Goodnight sweetie, I love you.” I replied.

“No you don’t!” came her sulky voice from behind the door.

I reflected on the vacillating  nature of parenthood as I descended the stairs. One minute you’re the Best Mommy Ever and the next you’re Meany McPoopypants. I can take comfort, though, in the knowledge that I am neither a truly mean person, nor am I wearing soiled knickers. For tonight, I’ll call that a win.