I glanced at the lower right corner of my computer and checked the time 8:14 p.m. Bedtime in less than an hour. "No. Not tonight. It's too late, and that's too much sugar."
I got a full-body-yet-not-so-serious pout in return. "But that's not fair!"
"Nope. It's too much. The end."
"I'm going to change your mind!" Middle flounced away.
I guarantee you, she didn't go far.
In my own defense, my fudge recipe is really rich, and even when cut into small pieces has enough sugar to power most 12-year-olds for a good two hours.
"What did she want?" Waffle asked.
 |
| A chocoholic's delight |
"You have to have changed your mind by now!" she asserted.
"Nope."
Middle flailed back dramatically while groaning her displeasure. Waffle snickered on the other end of the line.
I hollered back, "I'm your mother! I'm a cosmic killjoy!"
"Well, duh!" Middle fired back and kept going. I had no idea what she said because Waffle and I were both laughing so hard.
Waffle tried to compose herself. "Did she just say, 'Well, duh'?"
I nodded my head while muttering an affirmative and still chuckling. Knowing the situation was too far gone at this point for me to even be taken seriously, I leaned back and asked over my shoulder, "What did you say after 'Well, duh'?"
With the same amount of amused impudence as I'm sure she injected the first time, Middle repeated, "Can't you be a cool mom for once?"
"No!" I shouted as Waffle roared. I took a moment to glance at my child. "You can have it tomorrow."
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| Do not take intravenously |
Middle slumped to the floor. "But I won't be pumped then."
I smiled. "I'm sure you can pump yourself back up."
She cocked her head at me. "I knew you'd say something like that. But I won't." She paused. "Can I have one Thin Mint and one piece of fudge?"
"Yes."
Waffle and I tried to recover from the serious case of the giggles we'd had throughout the conversation as Middle bopped downstairs.
"How do you have Thin Mints in December?" Waffle wanted to know.
"My mother," I explained. "She bought several boxes and froze them, then brought a couple to us."
A few minutes later, Middle returned to the living room, an accusatory finger raised in my direction. "You raised me too well! It's YOUR fault!"
"What?" I asked about the same time Waffle did through the phone.
"Youngest said she could go ask you for a Thin Mint, and then she could give it to me, and I could have what I want. But I couldn't do that!"
I speared her with a gimlet eye. "Because you'd be out all kinds of sweet goodness if you ever got caught."
"Exactly! It's YOUR fault! How dare you!" Then Middle turned around and saw her cat in the rocking chair behind her. "Kimo! If you tell Mom, she'll let me have what I want!"
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| Truth. |
"She's begging the cat to talk," I informed Waffle.
She laughed. "Your child is unhinged."
I couldn't stop giggling. "Is it any wonder? I'm her mother."
"Well, it builds character." I could almost hear her smirk. "I'm going to let you deal with that--" Middle was still begging Kimo to speak--"and I'll talk to you tomorrow."
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| Speak, Kimo! |
"You're just rusty. You can do it. Just say it and Mom will give me Thin Mints and fudge. You talk to me all the time. You're opening your mouth. Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay sooooooooooooooooooomething. And she yawns. Yes, you can do it, Kimo. I believe in you. I'm being patient. Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay soooooooooooooooooooomething. Oh! I know. I have to speak in your cat language, and then you'll do it. I don't know your language. Is it Catanian? Catish? Oh, you're such a good Kimo. You can speak! Just say something! You can do it, baby!"
I kid you not.
I only wish I'd videoed some of her monologue for the wedding reception.
