The little dictator

As Sean grows older, he becomes more demanding.  He has no problem in taking some one by the hand and leading that person to what he wants.

He’ll take my hand and lead me to the fridge.  He’ll point to the fridge and demand, “Juice!”

He’ll take my hand and lead me to the fridge.  He’ll point to the top of the fridge for the candy jar and point and point.

He’ll take my hand and lead me to the counter.  He’ll point and demand, “Banana!”  Because he has learned to say banana, he demands them a lot, so he can hear himself say it.

He’ll take my hand and lead me to an open book of look-and-find.  He’ll point to the ground and demand, “Sit.” He’ll sit as well and tap the book.

Other days, he’ll just bring you what he wants.  He’ll shove a book into your hands, or he’ll shove a car into your hands.  Some times he’ll toddle out of the kitchen with a box of crackers and shove them into your hands with a demand of “Pease.” 

If, for some reason, you cannot give into these demands, he’ll throw himself down for a temper tantrum with a soft wail.  Honestly, it’s too funny because it’s nothing like the top of the lungs screaming Evan used to do.  Good luck with that, kid.

The main problem is that Sean does not understand that when he hands me a box with a cake on it or picture of pudding on it that does not mean it is in the box. 

Sweetheart, it’s a mix.  Mommy has to make it.  I swear to you don’t want to eat this powdery stuff.  Come on.  It’s time to throw your fit in your bed room.

 

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