I laugh hysterically. I had that child. Actually, I was that child, but that's another story. When my daughter was Baby Maby's age, I had a heart to heart with Heavenly Father. "Ok, here's what's goin' down. I am receiving NO JOY Heavenly Father. NO JOY WHATSOEVER from this child. You're going to have to fix her." And I waited. I'm still waiting.
But to be fair, He did send me some tender mercies to make amends. For example, she has long hair, so I can curl and twirl and adorn it with diamonds and flowers. And, for Halloween, she allowed me to make her a princess costume every year. Maybe not whole-heartedly, but in the end, I won. "You want to be a cat? How about a cat princess?" "You want to be a witch? How about Glinda the good witch?" You get the idea. It doesn't really matter how it happened, OK? Just that it happened. And yes, my good fortune did run out, as just yesterday I clicked on the "buy now" button for a football ensemble for her costume. It is powder blue, so I haven't begun to sob...yet.
So back to Baby Maby. That chick sure has her mother's number. Just as my daughter had~and has~mine. A push here. A shove there. And laughing maniacally as she watches her mother nose dive off the cliff of insanity. Then shrugging her shoulders, wiping her hands and turning away. "Now what?" I'll tell you what. You're locked out of the house, that's what. And Bitty Boo shrugs her shoulders, wipes her hands and turns away. Take that...you...you two year old!