Who stole the baby? As in, who stole the sweet little soul that once inhabited Melina?
I have uttered, many a time over the last couple of days, that I would gladly return my fourth child to the hospital, if only they'd have her. Thank goodness she can't understand the quiet muttering under my breath.
One conversation of ours yesterday went like this:
Melina: I want my milk.
Me: How about, "May I please have my milk?"
Melina: I NEED my milk.
Me: Okay, I will get it, but we need to be polite.
I realize that she is still just 2, but in this house, manners are very important. We start early and often, and so far, the older 3 do pretty well in terms of pleases and thank-yous.
Over Thanksgiving, Tim and Melina were playing in my parents' family room. She bascially beaned his head with a heavy magnifying glass.
Tim: Melina, no. We don't hit.
Then, she came to find me. She cried and cried, hoping I'd say that Daddy was wrong. It didn't happen.
Melina's behavior has changed, for the worse, I think. I love the little beast, really, but just when you think you've seen it all with your kids, the last one comes along and blows your mind. Her curiosity, which I think is grand, is often to blame when things get broken. Her inability to listen (she used to just fine) seems to be something she is picking up from the older kids. She has been whiney and grumpy and downright obnoxious at times. Seriously. Where did the little lady I once knew go?
My thoughts as of late? We have a 26 pound monster in the house. Thank goodness we didn't have twins again.