It’s all about the delivery
Trea had her pre-kindergarten check up today (and the pediatrician, who has seen Trea off and on since she was two weeks old, was as aghast as I was). She got FIVE shots, and didn’t shed a single tear. She was rewarded with coupons to a local fast-food place to get a hamburger and an ice-cream cone. Since John was planning to work late, we went out.
Now the problem, every time we go to a fastfood establishment with a play area of any kind, is leaving. They are wonderful kids while we’re there; they play well with others, eat their food, and generally behave themselves. Come time to leave though, and it’s almost always a fight.
So we talked, thoroughly, about my expectations. That when it was time to go there would be nothing less than complete cooperation. When the time came, Trea was fabulous and Adia resistant. Still, she didn’t melt down, so this was an improvement. We got in the car and the litany of complaints began.
“I’m tired.”
“I’m thirsty.”“I really wanted to play some more.”
“My shirt has ice cream on it.”
I reminded the girls that is a TREAT to go to one of these places, and weren’t they so lucky to get to go? Adia told me AGAIN that her shirt had ice cream on it, the dismay in her voice rivaling the tone most people use for discussing natural disasters or government action of any kind.
I talked about being positive and looking at the bright side. Adia repeated herself, louder, in case I just hadn’t understood that immediate action was called for (what did she want me to do while driving the minivan?)
When that didn’t work, I told them in no uncertain terms that I was not in a mood to hear complaints, or whining, and only wanted to hear happy voices the rest of the way home.
At which point Adia said, in the cheeriest possible voice, “Mom, my shirt has ice cream on it!”
Which, I guess, technically, was just a statement of fact.
I took them home, stripped off their clothes, and threw them in the bath, from which they emerged 30 minutes later clean, relaxed, and tired: The bedtime trifecta.
And I'm still laughing at Adia.
Now the problem, every time we go to a fastfood establishment with a play area of any kind, is leaving. They are wonderful kids while we’re there; they play well with others, eat their food, and generally behave themselves. Come time to leave though, and it’s almost always a fight.
So we talked, thoroughly, about my expectations. That when it was time to go there would be nothing less than complete cooperation. When the time came, Trea was fabulous and Adia resistant. Still, she didn’t melt down, so this was an improvement. We got in the car and the litany of complaints began.
“I’m tired.”
“I’m thirsty.”“I really wanted to play some more.”
“My shirt has ice cream on it.”
I reminded the girls that is a TREAT to go to one of these places, and weren’t they so lucky to get to go? Adia told me AGAIN that her shirt had ice cream on it, the dismay in her voice rivaling the tone most people use for discussing natural disasters or government action of any kind.
I talked about being positive and looking at the bright side. Adia repeated herself, louder, in case I just hadn’t understood that immediate action was called for (what did she want me to do while driving the minivan?)
When that didn’t work, I told them in no uncertain terms that I was not in a mood to hear complaints, or whining, and only wanted to hear happy voices the rest of the way home.
At which point Adia said, in the cheeriest possible voice, “Mom, my shirt has ice cream on it!”
Which, I guess, technically, was just a statement of fact.
I took them home, stripped off their clothes, and threw them in the bath, from which they emerged 30 minutes later clean, relaxed, and tired: The bedtime trifecta.
And I'm still laughing at Adia.
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