There's a quilt that hangs on the wall behind my 16 month old's crib. My mom made it for her and had the guests at my baby shower sign little messages and greetings to her which were very special. Sprite has been looking at that quilt since her eyes could focus. If there was anything in her room I would rescue in a fire (Sprite already being out of the house of course), I would make a bee line for that quilt.
In the middle of the very large quilt is a patch which John and I wrote in for our little daughter-to-be. John, of course, wrote about how much he already loved her and couldn't wait to meet her and play with her and try to be the best daddy for her. (Aww.) My message, in a nutshell, was "I really hope you get your daddy's personality." (Oh yes, I did.)
Ever since she has started to walk and talk and assert her personality, comments about how she acts like me are becoming common. I swear, if I could change it, I would. (But she probably wouldn't be as fun as she is now, though, so I'll keep her anyway.)
Last night, as I was loading up the dishwasher, she evidently thought her new pink play shoes needed to be cleaned as well and tried to load them into the bottom tray.
"No," I said, taking the shoes out of the tray and handing them back to her. She tried again. "No," I repeated, again extricating the shoes from the tray and placing them on the floor beside the dishwasher.
Sprite, who has recently elected herself the official door closer in the house (there was a vote, but she basically ran un-opposed), tried to close the dishwasher door by lifting it up. I helped her, by now tired of defending the dishes from further attack by her shoes.
"Thanks," I said, a little sarcastically. Okay, a lot sarcastically, but I figured a 16 month old doesn't understand inflection and I SAID thank you, so I was still trying to teach manners, right?
Sprite looked up with a bored look. "Welcome," she replied, lowering her eyelids. She then picked up her shoes and walked off.
I stared at her back as she walked away from me. My kid has snark. It's official.
Poor John. He knew what he was in for with me. He had (plenty of) warning.
Just think of the possible snark when she hits puberty...
(Editor's Note: this post was created for www.Blogher.com this morning, but I thought you might like it. You're welcome.) (Yes, I know, she gets it from me...)
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