Rachel the know-it-all

We played I Spy while we were waiting in the doctor’s office today—that’s right, we finally broke down and took Miriam to the doctor without insurance (dun-dun-dun!)—a game that Rachel is getting rather good at. When it was my turn I spied with my little eye something that was white.

“The wall?” Rachel guessed.

“No. The wall is white but I spy something different.”

“Hmmm…that thing?” she asked.

I followed her pointer finger to a little box mounted on the wall.

“The paper towel dispenser? Yes! That’s what I spy!”

“Mom,” she told me, kind of rolling her eyes, “That isn’t an indenser. That’s actually just a thing what holds all the paper towels.”

Oh, I so totally stand corrected.

Yesterday we talked about what we learned in our respective classes while we walked home from church. Rachel had already told me what she learned when I picked her up from nursery so I was trying to help her tell Daddy. Finally I had given so many clues that he had to guess.

“Did you learn about baptism?” he asked.

“No, Dad. We actually learned about getting baptized,” she informed him.

Later at the dinner table, Grandpa asked her what was going to happen when she turns eight. She got this dreamy look on her face and sighed happily, “I’m going to get married.”

On Saturday we had kind of a grumpy day at our house, at least where Rachel stands. Andrew worked from 7:00 AM until 6:00 PM so that meant that I got to deal with Rachel in the morning. For some reason she usually responds better to Andrew…except for mornings when she yells at him, “I don’t love you! I only love Mommy!” Those mornings she responds better to me.

However, this particular morning was not a mom-morning. She woke up angry with me, asked where her dad was, asked why her dad wasn’t home, asked why he had to work, asked why he didn’t just leave and come home, asked why we needed money, asked why we had to pay for things, asked why we couldn’t just take things, asked why stealing was wrong, asked why, asked why, asked why…and then she demanded that I serve her breakfast.

Unfortunately for me whatever kind of cereal she was looking for in the cupboard didn’t exist. I pulled out option after option after option but nothing was right.

“I want pink cereal!” she cried.

“There is no pink cereal,” I said exasperatedly. Then I spotted the Apple Jacks. “What about these?”

“Those are orange and green, not pink!” she wailed.

“Well, I think they’re a little pinkish. You call that orange?” I asked, showing her a sick peachy-orangey-pink O, “I’d definitely say that was pink.”

“It’s not! I don’t want them! I don’t want you! I want my Daddy!”

And the tirade started all over again. I don’t even remember what she ended up eating but that night at dinner we were discussing cereal again, I think because Jacob mentioned how I may or may not have told her that she’d end up being burned alive like King Noah if she couldn’t listen her parents. We’ve been reading in Mosiah, in case you couldn’t tell and the very beginning of Chapter 11 says that wicked King Noah “did not walk in the ways of his father.” Rachel gasped and said, “He didn’t listen to his father?”

We told her that he didn’t and then had to clarify that this was a different Noah from the Old Testament Noah.

Anyway…so I may or may not have alluded to death by fire as a means of punishment in connection with her behavior that morning. Mentioning that story of course brought us directly to the topic of cereal. Where else?

“And she was mad because she wanted pink cereal for breakfast,” I said, trying to rationalize why I’d tell my own daughter she’d be burned at the stake.

“But there isn’t any pink cereal,” said Jacob.

“Actually,” Rachel said, pointing her finger at Jacob, “Apple Jacks are pink!”

It’s just a real good thing we haven’t taught her the phrase “so there” yet. Maybe I’ll do that tomorrow. She packs the attitude for it.

On a completely unrelated note, she’s completely convinced she can tell time. I was tucking her into bed the other night and she read the numbers on the clock to me.

“Four. One. Eight. It’s four-one-eight, Mommy,” she announced, “Why isn’t there a five on there? Oh! There we go! Now it’s five-one-eight!”

“Actually, it’s 8:15.”

“No. It’s five-one-eight.”

“Okay, good night.”

What a silly, silly girl. And to think I ever wanted to burn her at the stake…