My 4th child, Marina, is quite the independent nugget. I don’t know if it’s because she wasn’t nursed as long as my other children or if she just came into this world knowing she was going to handle her own life. Mom’s got a lot of crap to take care of, and if Marina doesn’t take control, Lord knows how long she’ll have to wait for things.
For example, she wakes up in the morning, climbs out of her Pack ’n Play because she never slept in a real crib, see also: fourth child, takes off her nighttime diaper and throws it away, undresses, gets dressed for the day, then comes downstairs and says, “Mommy, I’m up.”
Is she an adult already? None of my other children did this at age two. Birth order sure does impact how your kids grow up because shoot if she doesn’t scream all the things a 4th child should be. While I appreciate her independent nature, it can also be a bit frustrating that she wants to do everything herself. Case in point, the other day.
I was downstairs working in my office. Marina was upstairs in the loft, playing with her toys. I could hear her talking to herself as she played. After a bit, I noticed the sounds getting quieter, so I went upstairs to check on her.
As I walked up the stairs, I peeked through the rails into the loft and didn’t see her.
Odd. She must be in her room.
So, I walked into her bedroom and found her there, getting herself changed. Laid out on the floor was a selection of clothes she must have chosen for herself. She was midway through struggle-bussing a fluffy skirt onto her body.
Marina looked up, dead-stared me through her bangs, and said, “Get out of my room.”
As the saying goes, my jaw dropped. What TF?!
I don’t even hear this from my 14-year-old who’s got attitude coming out of her pores most days, but here’s Marina commanding me to get out of her room like she pays the bills. I didn’t know what to say to that. But I also couldn’t let it slide. If I let her think it’s okay to speak to me like that at age two, I don’t know what life will look like in ten years.
“That’s not a very nice way to talk to me, Marina.”
Now finished with her attempt at arranging two legs into the skirt she selected for her outfit of the hour, she looked at me again and said, “Bro, get out.”
Except, instead of saying “bro,” she rolls her ‘r’ like her native langue is Spanish and it comes out “brrrro, get out.”
I. Just. Can’t.