Futile Argument Revisited

We're coming downstairs this morning, the twin Fries and me.  They are making demands.  I am not acquiescing.

"You'wre mean!" Small Fry pouts.

"You'wre beautifuwl," Medium Fry counters.

No, I tell them, they may not wear sticker earrings until after they're dressed, have had breakfast, and have had their hair done.

Medium starts to strip off her clothes as I head into the kitchen and start poking around, deciding what I'm going to fix for breakfast.  Small Fry follows me.

"Go get dressed," I order.

"No!"

"Wanna try that again?  Go get dressed."

"I caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan't!  I don't know how!"

"Yes, you do.  Go get dressed."

Major league pout.  "You'wre mean an' disobedient!"

"Go get dressed."

I pull eggs and shredded cheddar out of the fridge, deciding on eggs and bacon.  Five minutes later, Medium Fry is dressed, but Small Fry is running around, only wearing panties.  "Get your clothes on!"

"I don't know how!"

I resort to the time-honored tradition of counting to three, and then I "help" her get dressed (which isn't pleasant).  I instruct Medium Fry to get socks and put them on.  I tell Small Fry the same thing.

She refuses.

I tell her again.

"I can't!" she shouts.

"Yes, you can.  You WILL put socks on."  And I stare her down.

Wailing and tears commence.  "You'wre mean and byootifuwl!  And disobedient!" she howls.

I have to ask her twice more to put her socks on.  She does so, but grudgingly.  "You'wre mean and byoootifuwl," she shouts accusingly.

I've been accused of worse things.

"Get in your chair," I say to Small; Medium has already clambered up into her booster seat and is happily awaiting her scrambled eggs and bacon.

She scowls at me.  I tell her again.  She climbs in.

You'll never guess what she says to me.

"You'wre mean and byootifuwl and disobedient!"