You know those kids that call their parents by their first name and are unimpressed with everything? There's this sort of stereotypical image that goes along with it: a spoiled child who doesn't respect adults and maybe can cry on cue. Those are the kids that do it, right? Wrong.
My daughter has developed a habit of calling me Debra. Or Debbie. Sometimes she calls me “My Debra” and-this one cracked me up--“Dee.” I can't figure it out! My husband usually just refers to me with pet names like Sugar Belle and Honeybee (Sorry Michael, it was for the greater good), which could be causing some sort of psychological damage, but she's not hearing “Debra” from him. Am I wrong for missing being called Mama or Mommy? I still call my mother “Mama” and my dad is “Daddy.” That will probably never change. So how has my almost three-year-old grown out of it?
Speaking of mysterious things toddlers do, has anyone ever dealt with an obsession with too-small clothes and shoes? While I was going through some of her old things, my daughter picked a couple items out and wanted to try them on. The only problem was that everything was too little. She didn't really see that as an issue, however, like many of the girls I see at the mall. She squeezed her feet into some tiny Nikes that she insisted “still fit good.” Any attempt to remove them resulted in her yelling, “But they look so NICE!” She proudly put her raincoat on and didn't mind that the sleeves came to her elbow. Or that her belly button was showing. We should keep in mind that this is the same girl that has no qualms with removing her diaper in the company of complete strangers.
Sometimes, as a parent, it's your job to outsmart your children. They need it, because they don't really know what is going on or what they are doing. This is what we thought was the case when we decided our cat Huckle needed to spend some time outside to begin transitioning him to move outside. Our daughter loves Huckle, and she was not happy with the decision. “Let him stay with me! He wants to come back to me!” she cried. Michael stood strong. “He wants to stay outside, and he loves it there. Why, he even told me to let you know that he really likes playing outside and will come visit you sometimes!”
She eyed him suspiciously. She stopped crying. The drama was intense and for a moment, no one spoke. Then, it dawned on her. “Cats don't have talk! They have meow! Huckle did not talk that!” What is this? First, she calls me Debra, then she figures out our lame attempts to outsmart her? What's next, she'll inform us that Santa Claus is a fake and tell us not to bother with the whole “tooth fairy” thing?
The only thing getting me through this new independence my daughter has developed is her increased ability to let me know she loves me. When she was a baby, I just assumed she loved me because she smiled at me and didn't throw up in my hair (often). When she started walking, I assumed she loved me because she would walk to me. Then, later, run. I assumed she loved me when she would hand me a soggy, half-eaten cracker or ask me to scratch her back. But when she was first able to tell me she loved me-well, that moment alone made my life worth it. And it is the only thing besides a long and never-ending back massage that can make me forget about that time she stuck bologna in the DVD player. Though I obviously haven't forgotten.
Love, Mom
Debra (Fulcher) Carpenter writes when she isn't studying, or when she's procrastinating.  Mostly when she's procrastinating. She is a young housewife, student, and mom. Email her at interruptedmom@gmail.com or visit the website at www.motherinterrupted.com