Little Dictators

So many things my kids do these days are amazing to me.

And frustrating to me.

And it's in those moments of frustration that I find myself thinking that if they were 3 feet taller, it would be unacceptable and they would have zero friends and would probably be locked up in a psych ward.

And then, I bring myself back to the present and get bossed around by The Little Dictators That Live With Me.  Who laugh in my face when I tell them that I've had enough and they need to go to sleep.

Whose beautiful little minds are capable of making my ears bleed with all of their many, many... oh dear God so, so many questions.

Who forget what you told them 3 seconds ago, but can somehow remember exactly where the treats are that we bought 3 weeks ago... you know, the ones I forgot we had?

Who are capable of finding something for me to fetch for them even when I have covered my bases and finally sit down to eat.  Because mama must be... doing something.  She must be... cooking.  She must be... cleaning.  She must be... wiping our butts.  She's never allowed to sit still and just BE. 

And when they can't find something for me to get them or for me to do... when I've preempted their attempt at being tiny little dictators... they sit at the table, fork in hand, glass of milk and glass of water in front of them, plenty of fruit so they won't run out, blanket next to them, napkin next to their plate and say:  "Hey, mama! Can you, can you, can you, can you, can you (deep breath) can you, can you, can you..." while she looks around for something, anything that she desperately needs RIGHT NOW, "... can you, can you, um... can you, can you, can you get me, can you get me, can you get me.... " her eyes light up and I know I'm screwed.  "Can you get me that steak knife so I can cut my Cheerios with it? PLEASE?"