This morning, the Moopa was in rare form.
I can't explain it. Her outbursts and defiance can't be attributed to lack of sleep. Or hunger. Or clothes that were too tight or shoes that were in need of removal.
I attribute it all to her age falling between the ripe old years of 2 and 3.
Moopa just decided she was going to be a tiny monster. A flailing, wailing, bugger-faced-24-pound-beast.
All I asked of this child was to wear a coat. It's a balmy 32 degrees today in our northeastern part of the United States. One would think a coat would be a welcome suggestion.
Moopa did not. She fought me. Hit me with her bag of cookies. Arched her back and weaseled away as I tried to finagle her arms through the holes.
I finally calmly placed her in her crib. I was left with no alternative. Moopa threw more things. She screamed until she realized her whereabouts. She eventually gave in and accepted defeat.
I then rocked her calm and we put on her coat.
And because I hold no grudges, I gave her a new bag of fresh cookies for the ride.
To all my munchkins I say this:
Fight me all you like, I will smile through the madness and find away around your insanity.
Mom will always find a way. Always.
And I will be there with fresh cookies when the dust settles.