It all started with milk. My four-year-old daughter, Emily, asked for strawberry milk and my husband accidentally made her chocolate milk instead. Not good. And I was the unlucky one that got to deliver the "wrong" milk to the thirsty albeit moody girl. Some would say I was the bearer of bad news on this fine winter morning.
I delivered. She sipped. And then it happened. Her face transformed into what some would compare to the girl on the exorcist. Before her head started to spin she managed to get a few words out..."THIS IS CHOCOLATE...I ASKED FOR STRAWBERRY."
And that was it. I was sentenced to jail. She arose from the bed where she had been twisted and tangled in the sheets, pulled out a notepad from her nightstand and told me that I was going to jail. For giving her the wrong flavor of milk. She wrote out the violation, gave me her go-to eye roll, as if she couldn't stand to be in my presence. She ripped the fine out of the book and folded it up neater and more precise than I've ever seen her do anything before...and tucked it back into her book.
I've been told that I'm a mean mommy, a bad singer, and she's even pointed out the "stripes" on my forehead. But, until now, I had never been sentenced to jail for my parenting style. And by style, I mean, my mistakenly pouring the wrong syrup into the cup of milk.
I've officially reached a new low. Please send letters to my cell. And caramel flavored milk.