Sunday I was playing with Anna, the game where she says, “Go to sleep!!” and I put my head down on the couch and pretend to snore for a couple of seconds until she shrieks, “Wake up!!” Lather, rinse, repeat ad nauseum. Finally, after about 376 rounds of the Go To Sleep Wake Up game she got really close to me, put her face a couple of inches from mine and said with a grin, “Look at me!”

I obliged and looked at her. She then continued, lifting both hands in front of her for emphasis, “Don’t hit Miles!” (Miles is one of the kids in her daycare class.)

I busted out laughing, since it was painfully obvious that she has been told this far too many times.

She is, alas, at that age where she expresses discontent, frustration, hunger, love, thirst, boredom, joy, and every other emotional state by taking a hefty swat at whatever/whomever is closest to her. She swatted me (hard! Jeez, that kid has a mean right hook!) the other day and I put her in timeout. (I’m really trying hard to not hit her back since I don’t’ want to reinforce the action of hitting.) It used to be that I could stick her in the corner for timeout and she’d wail for the two minutes and then I’d go pick her up and she’d be all sorry and she’d be reformed and she’d behave herself for a whole six minutes. But now I think she’s become far too used to the whole timeout scam, and now just sits there, banging her feet on the floor, and after about a minute starts calling, “MOMMYYYYY… WHERE ARE YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU.”

So after her two minutes were up, I went over to her and crouched down in front of her and quietly explained that hitting was bad and it hurt me when she hit me and I didn’t like it at all. All during this she nodded sagely, saying, “Yeah. Yeah.” But I know she was thinking, “Yes, you weak pitiful creature, I hear what you are saying, and I’ll put up with this pacifist crap for now but in just a few years I’ll be bigger than you and I’ll lay you right out.”