Bella. Today, you got in big trouble. BIG trouble. Possibly the biggest trouble of your young life. You pitched a screaming fit on the way home from school because Daddy wasn't driving where YOU wanted to go. This is not unusual, because your objections to having your will thwarted are numerous and voluminous. But when you got home, while I was in the shower and your father was carrying things into the house, you took off running. Up the driveway, all the way to the gate, which is, like, 400 feet? STEEP feet? The drive-gate was closed and latched, but by the time your Daddy caught up with you, you had managed to squeeze your 40-pound body through the gap between gate and fence, and were headed for the road. Another minute, and you'd have been there. Apparently, you were just gonna hoof it the 12 miles back to town, to your intended destination. YOU ARE A HARD-HEAD. Later, you were very very sorry, and ate lots of chicken.
You screamed so hard today that you literally burst a blood-vessel in your right eye. Then you complained of a headache. When I asked if you knew why your head hurt, you said, matter-of-factly, "Because I screamed so loud." So we've established that it's not a matter of you not knowing what you're doing, not that that was ever really in question.
Yesterday, when your father and I both exclaimed simultaneously that you were "driving us crazy," you just considered it for a moment, gave us a dismissive wave of your hand, and said, "Aw, y'all were crazy already." Just like that. You are FOUR. I tremble at the thought of you at age 15, I'm not ashamed to say. I'm thinking of preemptively grounding you at around age 10 for the smartmouth you'll have for the following 6 years or so.
I just put you to bed, and you were all sweetness. Total sweetness. Nobody would have recognized the Tasmanian devil-child from mere hours earlier. When you flopped into bed amidst multiple stuffed animals and beneath your gauzy, starry bed-curtain, I saw, on the soles of your feet, in red, carefully-drawn numbers. Yeah. A number 'one' on your right foot, and a number 'two' on your left. I asked you: "Bella, why do you have the numbers one and two on your feet?" In response to this, you laughed, stuck your feet up in the air so that the soles were side-by-side, and said, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world, "Because I wanted to make a TWELVE."
Oh, and today's Sentence That Probably Hasn't Been Spoken By Many Other Preschoolers:
"I have too many poodles in my hands." I know the feeling.
I could just hug you all day long. Screaming and all.