Sometimes I write letters to Ellen DeGeneres. No particular reason. Just because I can.
Tonight there was a standoff at the Silver house. It was me versus the two-year-old. She woke up from her nap, madder than hell at God only knows what. The following conversation is based on actual events – as they happened in my imagination.
“This is unacceptable, Mother!” Baby girl screamed as she banged on her bedroom door. “This is simply not how this works!”
I turned the volume up on my iPad as I listened to her fit while folding laundry from the safety of my bedroom.
“There’s a procedure in place for fits of this nature! First, I wake up screaming. Second, you run into my room, convinced something is chewing on me. Third, I slap you in the face because I think you’re the one chewing on me. Fourth, you take out your iPad and play my playlist. And five, I calm down and watch my playlist. Then I ask for something to eat.”
I shook my head as I listened to her screams. “Where does she get this crap from?” Seriously, I’d love to meet the person who wrote her manual.
“You skipped steps four and five and I WILL. NOT. TOLERATE IT!”
“You know what?” I asked the pile of laundry. “This is too good not to write down.” I reached for my laptop and began typing.
“IN CASE YOU’RE WONDERING, I’M STILL NOT HAPPY!”
“There’s a shocker.”
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING? IS THAT TYPING I HEAR? IF YOU’RE TAKING DICTATION THEN I MUST REQUEST YOU USE THE SHOUTY CAPITALS TO CONVEY JUST HOW UPSET I AM!”
“No worries, there, Princess. Momma’s on it.”
Her tirade of complaints lasted a few more minutes before I realized there was nothing but silence. I walked over to her door and, using extreme caution, opened it. Her room was a disaster. All of her clothes from both her dresser and her laundry hamper were on the floor. They were in good company; her stuffed animals were all on the floor as well. I found her standing in front of her closet, reaching for a blue Elsa dress she got as a hand-me-down from her cousin.
She looked over at me. Her face was red and she was out-of-breath. “Hello, Mother. I wish to wear a gown this evening. Will you get it for me? It’s a little out-of-reach. Also, I wish to discuss the arrangement of my bedroom. I’m concerned it doesn’t follow the principles of Feng Shui.”
I’m not sure who won this battle, Ellen. Let’s just call it a truce.