My little girl approached me, using her most winning and wheedling smile. “Momma. Am I three or am I much, MUCH bigger?”
Now, as a mother, I do have some super-natural abilities such as the ability to sniff out poopy children faster than a speeding bullet, the power to leap large piles of laundry in a single bound, and, most importantly, the ability to visualize multiple scenarios rapidly.
Using that power, I knew there would be no right answer. If I conceded that she was big, she would use that admission to blackmail me into giving her the rights and privileges of her older siblings. If I foolishly suggested that she was a big, three year old I would be eaten alive. There is no neutral Switzerland for mommies. So this left me with only one choice.
Knowing that I was about to embark down a road from which I might not return unscathed, I nevertheless, told her the truth, “Well….you are three years old.” I then braced myself for impact.
“NOOOOOOOOO!!” she screeched in a voice designed to subdue small dogs and tired mamas, “I am much, MUCH bigger!!!!!!” She then proceeded to fall on the floor and provide our family with the best display of a three year old tantrum, this side of the Mississippi River.
And it is now 8:15 a.m. Eastern time.