Low Hanging Fruit

The toddler is realizing that there are buttons to push 'round here. She is cunning, this feral child of my loins. She glances over her shoulder at me under half-closed lids, as she shuffles slowly towards some forbidden target. There is no need for words: her body language is one large middle finger pointed in my general direction.

I have mellowed considerably over the past nine years. Where this behaviour would have ignited a smoldering annoyance in me with the first two kids, I mostly find it hard not laugh now. I finally understand that this will pass. It just will; I know this with every molecule of my being. So I try to distract, to change her direction. I administer consequences, when required, all the while stifling a grin and sternly, silently forbidding the corners of my mouth to turn up lest it fuel her contrariness.

Oh, but there are easier targets in view. There are siblings. Not so much my boy, for his hot buttons wouldn't even scald you. He is a pomegranate, the globose fruit with tough skin whose seeds are so much work to extract for an end result that isn't really all that satisfying.

My middle child, however, could burn down buildings with her intensity. Histrionic, anguished, constantly upping the decibular* ante. She is covered in hot buttons which her little sister is only too happy to push. Over and over and over again. I try to explain that her reaction only serves to fuel Elyse's behaviour. I advise her to be still, ignore, wait it out. She just can't do it.

My H., she is a tree full of plump, ripe cherries that are easily plucked from their stems and popped into mouths to savour on the spot. And E. is that kid in the corner with the dark red juice running down her chin.

*I'm not convinced that decibular is an actual word, but I like that way it sounds, okay?