Don't You Know Who I Am?

What with the rain and all, I decided to forego my usual Tuesday schedule of dragging poor Lea around on what feels like an endless—and often pointless—flurry of errands primarily aimed at keeping the house stocked with food, clean clothing, gifts for the five thousand birthday parties a year the girls attend, books (okay, those are mostly for me), and other various and sundry items, including Mach 3 razor blades, coffee filters, half-n-half, and salsa (the four things on which hinge the spousal unit's physical and psychological survival).

But like I said, it's raining and Lea was unhappy with the outfit I'd thrown on her this morning: jeans, pink turtleneck, lady bug rain slicker, and Hello Kitty beanie (what a brat! how could any sane 3-year-old bitch about a Hello Kitty beanie?!). The best thing to do after dropping the big girls off at school, then, was to hunker down here at home. And so we have spent the morning playing with blocks, practicing writing the letter "R" (I don't know why; it was her idea), and sticking marshmallows on sticks (again, I have no idea why). The marshmallow activity seemed to demand hot chocolate and cookies, and so we indulged: sugar cookies fresh from the oven (where were Izzy & Wily?!) and Pernigotti Cocoa perked up with a few drops of vanilla.

Well, the kid could not be happier. In the past hour or so she has proclaimed several times that I am the Best Mommy In The Whole World. This is downright inaccurate—I have chronicled several instances in which I am plainly One of The Worst Mommies in the Whole World—but you know what? I'm not going to correct her. In fact, I'm going to revel in her mistake. Inevitably, someone somewhere will be mean to me, thus providing the ideal opportunity for me to say, "Don't you know who I am?" Of course, they will be speechless, and I will continue, "From the look on your face, I see that you do not. I am the Best Mommy In The Whole World. Don't screw with me."