Pie at 2 am is fine if you wear gray socks.

Today I got an opening glimpse of what the teenage years will be like for Gretchen, my very strong minded, sassy mouthed 7 year old. I pick her up from her friend's house, and now all of a sudden everything in her room is "so last week." Yeah sure. Want to know what's so last week? The headache I have had since becoming a mother. Now it's come to my attention that this child is not only getting ready for the teenage years, but she's also getting ready for the marriage/motherhood years. Hence her putting her 3 year old sister in time out. A year ago she wanted a bunk bed. So, a bunk bed was bought, and painted, with love, by her father. Today after leaving her friend's house I hear her in her room complaining that she wants a bed on the floor. This wonderful top bunk that she has dubbed her "office space" is now last week's newspaper. Useless. One night over a friend's house and I get stuck with a menacing side show version of an HGTV program. "The room is too small." "These curtains are too long and white for this small room." "Why do I have to share my room with a 3 year old?" The simple answers of "Well because it's her room, too" just don't seem to connect with the enigma that is a 7 year old girl's brain.  So here we are at 4:30 in the afternoon, with a child who insisted 4 hours ago to redo her room, because the room like this just isn't serving its purpose. Apparently this room has so much potential to be unlocked and discovered that this child decided to take it all apart. Now hey, I'm all for inspiration and taking matters into your own hands, but now we have a 7 year old who is done with this project, because a new project has come to mind. Apparently this project involves markers, a big piece of paper, and an image of what she would look like as a mermaid eating a cheeseburg. And now what is to become of this bedroom project and the 7 year old redecorator from hell? The bedroom will be finished by the mature and smart parent and the 7 year old will now try to "Picasso" up a mermaid eating a cheeseburg picture. And at some point tonight the house will resume into a less hostile environment. And the 7 year old who threatened her brother with her hand out and the following quote "See this hand? You will feel it one day", will hopefully passout from designer's remorse. Throughout the day and evening this place is a madhouse. A zoo. This house, that is used by other neighbors as a threat of "if you don't behave I will send you to THAT house over there." But at 2 am, while wearing my nice and quiet gray socks, I can get away with peace and pie.

I fought in the war, but the toothpaste won.

I tried. I really did try to help this child. And, as most of you already know, I'm referring to my beautiful, autistic 3 year old. I will try not to mention the "A" word too many times, because I don't want it to define who she is. She, herself, defines who she is. So back to where I was. The dear child wanted to brush her teeth. However, I was not allowed to help. I am NEVER allowed to help. When the pajama's are being put on backwards, and she's rolling around screaming as if they were poisonous I am not allowed to help.  When she wants a glass of chocolate milk, and refuses to let me help, and the chocolate powder gets dumped into her cup like an elderly woman addicted to Metamucil, I am not allowed to help. And so today when she decided to randomnly brush her teeth, you guessed it, I was not allowed to help. So here we are in the kitchen together. Me, watching her squeeze half a tube of toothpaste onto her brush, and her, completely missing the brush. And where does the toothpaste end up? On the floor, of course.  So here I am watching this toothpaste hit the floor, and decide that it's time for a mother's helping hand. Which was not well recieved. Immediately the outreach of my hand to grab the tube sent Molly into a frenzy. A frenzy that ended with this 3 year old slipping around on the kitchen floor that was covered in toothpaste. But, does she give up? Does she surrender to the paste and move on to more important things like Special Agent Oso and a cookie? Of course not. She forges on. And, while squirming on the toothpaste infested floor, she manages to get the toothbrush into her mouth. And, alas, the toothbrushing was accomplished. So, in the end, I fought the war, but the toothpaste won.