Today was, I don’t know, the 400th straight day of near 100-degree weather, so to break up the numbing monotony of it we drove to Baskin Robbins for some ice cream after dinner. And things were fine until we hit a language barrier, when she asked for a cup but meant a cone, and we were supposed to have known what she meant. Sorry, but I don’t speak Insane Toddler.
And then she wanted a cup of water or something like that, but we figured, you know, not every kid in the world has had the luxury of visiting an ice cream parlor, and here ours was making a fuss because the delivery receptacle did not suit her liking. So we said NO WATER FOR YOU. Which I guess when translated into Insane Toddler means ACT LIKE YOU HAVE JUST SWALLOWED BATTERY ACID.
So there continued to be a lot of crying, and when we got into the car to come home she started going off about how she wanted to go to the new house. Jon assured her that we were going home, knowing that it would only make her angrier because she refuses to accept that the new house is home. Home is that other place we used to live where her room was a quarter of the size it is now, and for several blocks all she did was hysterically chant NEW HOUSE, NEW HOUSE, NEW HOUSE. Which when translated to Reasonable Adult means I REALLY SHOULD HAVE TAKEN A NAP TODAY.
Normally this makes me really anxious, but today was just one of those days when any sympathy I might have had was totally overwhelmed by every immature molecule in my body, so I turned to Jon and suggested that maybe we should drive by the old house. Slowly. For fun.
Sometimes parenthood is like being 13 all over again, when you’re really into setting things on fire or wanting to find out how big of a mess a watermelon would make if you dropped it off the roof.