Teeny tiny little adult

This week, more than ever, Zoey is insistent upon the fact that she is (really!) grown up. I am noticing this in several ways.

First of all, in her manner of speaking. Long gone are the days of calling for Mommy or Daddy...Mom and Dad just sound way more mature, don't you think? Also, she's working like crazy to copy anything she thinks is an adult mannerism. Case in point: I asked her last night if she wanted to read Belinda Ballerina before bed. She told me no, she doesn't like Belinda. I told her that was crazy talk. She looked at me and, I swear to God, snorted and said "whatever". Except it came out "whatebboh". Which is the part that breaks my heart in to a million pieces and makes me love her three-year-oldness all the more.

And then we have the fact that accepting help from Mom or Dad with anything is, I don't know, sacrilege at this age. Do you know how many cars lined up and patiently waited for me to pull out of my coveted front-row parking space at Safeway last night, as I not-so-patiently explained to my daughter that no, you actually can NOT buckle your own seat belt, all by yourself? (She made up for this by insisting after dinner that she could wash her own dishes, all by herself. Which I am totally all for, since she doesn't eat off anything that isn't plastic.) Then, shortly before bed, she was hell-bent on fixing her OWN hot milk. Convincing her that she couldn't pour milk from the half-full gallon jug on her own was time-consuming, to say the least. However, I did bite my tongue and let her finish the process on her own...putting the glass in the microwave (I can do it myself, Mom!), shutting the door and pressing the right numbers in the correct order before turning it on (No, Mom, I can do it myself!), then taking it out and pouring it in to a plastic cup. (I can do it myself!)

Then there's watching her while she's playing. Her imagination has taken off in the past several months...and nearly all her creative play centers around day-to-day activities. Like lining all her dolls up on the floor, covering them (from head to toe, so it looks like a tiny morgue, which is a little off-putting) with blankets, and marching up and down commanding "stop talking!" and "it's nap time! I said be quiet!". Another favorite is tea party...her incomplete, hand-me-down plastic tea set provides hours of entertainment as she doles out fishy crackers and water to everyone in the family. (Dad's serving sat on the table last night, untouched, until he had returned from work hours after Zoey was in bed.) So, you'll be sitting at the table, patiently waiting for your serving of stale crackers, when suddenly the sugar bowl morphs in to a pot of Vaseline and you have a three year old way up in your face, saying "hold still, Mom. Make *this* face. (Scrunched up, fishy/kissy face.) You are all chapped..." Then, with all the care and concern a preschooler can muster, you will find yourself slathered in make believe petroleum product.

Watching Zoey go through this phase is split nearly 50/50 in to two camps...one part totally exasperating, the other part a complete joy. She can bridge from traffic tyrant (did you know she mastered all the rules of the road already, and isn't afraid to point them out?) to unfailingly polite in the blink of an eye. And there are still the moments when she wants to curl up next to me on the couch, or I catch her sound asleep with her little bottom stuck up in the air, and I am reminded that she is not, after all, quite as grown up as she thinks.

But don't tell her I said that.