Need to kick some Black-Belted Butts

Its like I am speaking in a foreign language that Dimples does not understand, when I say 'Hurry.' Or, any other words that fall in the synonym category or close-to-being-a-synonym category for that matter.

Quick.

Fast.

Speed it up.

I might as well be saying limpora, brinka, or fibikoon. Yeah, they don't mean anything, but for Dimples they are all the same. Meaningless.

It is a constant struggle to get her to do anything.

Breakfast lasts until lunch time.

When asked to go pee, she tells me that her pee pee won't work. I ask her to try anyways, and after spending (read wasting) a loooooong time convincing, when she finally does try, sometimes she tells me, 'It doesn't work. Maybe it needs new batteries!'

Bedtime is a torturous routine.

Finish milk. I want apple juice. No, finish your milk. (takes 15 mins on good days)

Go upstairs. I need to play some games on the computer. No, its bedtime. You have to wake up early. Just for a little while. No, you will be tired in the morning if you don't go to bed now. Just one game, Mama. Please. Dimples, Please. Mama is tired and sleepy. Giggles is tired. Please Mama, pretty pretty please. *sigh* Okay, I'm going to put Giggles to sleep. When I come back, you have to go up with me.

Then, finally when she comes up, its the pee pee wars. Takes forever getting into her jammies. Wants me to tell her 3 stories every night, and long ones. Then she wants a facial, pretend one. Then a song while I scratch her back. And then a foot massage. Sometimes the requests for the foot rub and back scratching come together, so I am singing, scratching and rubbing at the same time- dozing off from time to time. Me, not her.

And then leaving home, to go anywhere takes forever. She does not grasp the concept of 'running late'. She moves at the same turtle pace no matter what.

Hurry up please. We are running late.



Can you please go wear your shoes? I want my party shoes. Look around they must be somewhere. No, I don't see them. Wear the pink ones. No, I don't want to. Go wear your sneakers, please. No. Party shoes. Look for them then! No. You! You look for them.

I find the party shoes right where she had taken them off.

Take your jacket. I can wear it by myself! Okay, do it quickly. We are running late. This is how my friends wear their jackets. (placing it on the carpet, and trying to show me some damn trick.) We don't have time for this. I am putting Giggles in the car. You have 1 minute to come.



I put Giggles in the car, and come back in to get her. She is still standing there without her jacket. I grab her jacket, and tell her to move. I had to open the door. Well, I just opened it. Hurry up. I had to be in the front. *sigh* Go ahead. Oh. I had to get my baby (her doll). We don't have time. Please lets just leave. I'll be right back.



Anyway. So we finally get wherever it is that we were going, but we are obviously late. Its okay to be a little late to the doctor's office, or a playdate. (or, maybe not, but moving on) This time, we were late to her Tae-Kwondo class.

As frustrated as I was with the struggle to get there, I was pretty impressed by her during the class. She listens to the instructor, tries to do as told, and mostly succeeds. Unlike some other brats who think its bedtime, or playtime. One kid is lying on the mat, oblivious of whatever is going on around him. The instructor has to pull him up a number of times. And then he starts running and giggling. My kid needs to learn to manage time better, but otherwise she is a gem.

Try doing all this at home. Its not easy.



When the time comes to get a sticker after class, Dimples in her white Karate suit goes to the instructor. The giggling, running, lying-on-the-floor kid is behind her in line. With a smile she looks up to the instructor, eagerly awaiting her sticker, and she is told, she cannot get one because she was late. I see the smile vanish from her face. I feel bad for her, but in my heart I understand that she needs this to make her understand.

But then, its the giggling, running kid's turn to get the sticker. And he did. Oh no you didn't. You black-belted son-of-a-*bleep* instructor. You break my daughter's heart, and give that freaking kid a sticker, who was distracting everyone in class?

Its about time I get a black belt myself, and kick some black-belted butts.