Fickle With Friends
We're all trying to vie for spots as Ror's new best friend. Yesterday he started the practice of bestowing the title upon whomever was highest in his favor at the moment. It was really meaningful, the first time he said it-- "Daddy, you're my best friend!" Chris was over the moon with joy. A few short hours later, he was a little miffed when Ror then said, "Connor, YOU'RE my best friend!" He sold out just because Connor let him play with his new Mr. Fantastic action buddy. Yet although we know it's a fleeting honor, we're all thrilled when we get it, and sort of look snottily at other members of the family when we do. Tonight at dinner, I heard, "Mommy, you're my best friend! Give me a hug!" As I sprinted around the table (knocking over the meatloaf dish in my haste), I cast a triumphant glance at Connor, now dethroned from best-friend status. Connor takes it very personally when he's no longer the family-member in favor-- he moans, "I thought *I* was your best friend! What happened to ME, Ror? What about ME??" Chris and I are much more mature about it; we would never SAY that a two-year-old's capricious favor actually means something to us; we just look at each other scathingly and say with our eyes what we've always felt: "I KNEW he loved me best!" We're all enjoying it immensely, because Katie hasn't been over since this new phase of bestowing best-friendship has begun; we hold no illusions that we'll retain our status when she comes over. Strangely enough (okay, let's be honest, not at all surprisingly), Riley Kate has not once earned the title of best friend.
Connor's been testing his sartorial independence these days. When we're not planning to leave the house and I'm feeling particularly too clumsy to scale the stairs (have you seen my latest pregnancy pic? I'm hee-yooge!), I'll tell Connor to go downstairs and dress himself, which results in any number of fashion don't's. It's almost as though Dad were dressing him-- just kidding! Earlier in the week he came up wearing a red and blue Spiderman t-shirt with navy and yellow fleece-lined sweats. I questioned why he was wearing insulated pants in 103 degree weather, and he replied, "hey, this air conditioner makes me chilly-cold! I need these pants!" This afternoon he turned eating a nectarine into The New Jersey Nectarine Massacre, and I sent him downstairs to change his shirt; he returned wearing a cable-knit turtleneck sweater with khaki shorts. Chris asked with a straight face, "Um, aren't you a little hot in that shirt?" Connor practically shrieked, "I AM CHILLY COLD!" I pressed further, "Well, then why are you wearing shorts?" "BECAUSE MY LEGS ARE SWEATY HOT!" Whatever-- we'll pick our battles.
Speaking of battles, what better segue than the word "battle" to move on to an update on Riley Katie, our little dictator in training? I put her hair into a cute little ponytail on top of her head this morning, complete with a curly bow. It was very Pebbles Flinstone-esque. She typically enjoys hairbows for the first five minutes of wear, until everyone in the house has seen and ooh-ed and ahh-ed themselves silly, and then she's sick of it. But today the 'tude was just coursing through her veins full force, and the minute I put her down after clipping the bow onto her ponytail, she turned around, looked me STRAIGHT in the eye, ripped the bow out of her hair and threw it on the ground. All while maintaining eye contact. I think she even raised her eyebrows a little, begging me to do something about it. At lunch, she ripped it out, threw it on the floor and gave me a cocky little look that said, "We're in PUBLIC. You wanna fight this battle right here?" Back into the hair it went. I'm persistent, or very, very stupid. When we're in the car, she usually calls my name so I'll turn around and watch as she rips it out of her hair. Today was no different, and she even gave an evil little grin as she did the rip-and-toss routine. Why do I picture her teenage years as feeling like a scene from The Exorcist?
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