The day begins with breakfast. I have made banana pancakes and they are really good. The little dictator has not had a taste of the pancakes but she yells that this is not what she wants. I try to reason with her but she yells and throws her sippy-cup in protest. I go back to the kitchen and prepare something else. I come back into the dinning room and present my new offering. The little dictator is still not pleased. Apparently she is not in a good mood this morning.
Breakfast ends and we head over to the little dictators toy area. The little dictator wants to play and so do I, but I have to use the bathroom. This is not acceptable to her. The little dictator screams “play!” I tell her that I will be very quick and the little dictator screams some more and demands that we play now. I head to the bathroom in defiance and the little dictator pounds on the door demanding that I stop this disobedience and that I return to the room to play. I leave the bathroom and proceed to fulfill her demands.
Playtime starts off pleasant. The little dictator pulls out her blocks and makes a tower. Not more than a few seconds go by and she demolishes the tower. The little dictator smiles ever so slightly and turns her eyes towards me. I am not sure what she is thinking but I wonder if she is trying to send a message.
The little dictator demands that we now color with her markers. I grant her wish and pull out the drawing pad and markers. The little dictator cannot be limited to such a thing as a drawing pad. Her imagination is much bigger than that. It encompasses the carpet as well. I encourage that she stay on the drawing pad. The little dictator refuses. Markers are taken away and a new rage comes over her. Crying, followed by the usual rant of, “mine! Mine! MINE!”
Suddenly the little dictator realizes that markers are overrated and that she is hungry once again. I sarcastically point out that we have some great pancakes, but the little dictator is not amused. I think sarcasm is beyond her. The little dictator proceeds to the fridge where she awaits for me to open it and grant her whatever she wishes. Ice cream and mangos are at the top of her list. Ice cream is denied, which causes another rage, but quickly she realizes that mangos are just as good. The mangos have just touched the plate and I hear the little dictator calling out, “Sofia! Sofia!” This is the little dictator’s favorite TV show. She is quite obsessed with it. “Sofia! Sofia!” I finally cave and allow her to watch one episode. There is no sound from her for 22 minutes.
The show ends and the little dictator demands that another episode be played. “Sofia! Sofia!” I refuse and a hissy fit ensues. I ignore it and the little dictator proceeds to go play in her room. She calls for me at full force. I go in to see what the little dictator needs and she runs at me full speed and says, “Daddy! Daddy!” She reaches for me and greets me with, “Hi Daddy.” I smile and pick the little dictator up, “hi baby.” I stare into the beautiful bluesih, gray eyes that are before me and smile.
This is my little dictator. My baby girl.
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