Victim of tyranny

I've made mention of P's tiny dictatorial leanings, but only within the past couple of days have I realised that the tyranny is aimed primarily at me. P is very much attached to me, which is somewhat of a relief as she is my child. Yet, she is much more likely to be a bossy cow to me rather than The Dude. It's not as if I'm a pushover, hence making me more receptive to her numerous demands, quite the opposite. I'm Mean Mommy (like Wendy Pepper - anyone remember her? Ew), the kid's Dad is the type who will put her on a chocolate drip and let her watch In The Night Garden until her eyeballs fall out. Why is he not the focus of her attempts to dominate and control?

Recent engagements with my dear, sweet, not-even-27-month old:

P: "Sit here Mum. You do what I want Mum."

P: "Go away Mum. NO! GO.AWAY.MUM!" includes hand swatting for extra "piss off already" effect

P: "I don't want to hit you Mum."
Me: "Uh, then don't?"
P: looking very sincere "Mum. I don't want to hit you."

P: "Do what I say Mum."
Me: "I think it might be the other way round dear - you do what I say"
P: squeals "No! Do what I say!"

More to come, no doubt.

Since we're on the topic of controlling toddlers, I can take this opportunity to showcase, in the form of photographs, a display of my child's major control freak tendencies.

P has a little car:

The seat of the car comes up, providing a handy little mobile storage unit.

P keeps her most precious elements in here, and woe betide anyone who dares to remove just one object. She is perceptive beyond her two years, and she will notice its absence.

What are the contents you say? Why...let us have a look!

Shall we break the elements down? Small denim purse which always has a varied collection of stones and shells?

CHECK!

What are those two creepy things hanging out on either side of the purse? Why they are a tiny pink frog and a miniature green seahorse made of hackeysack material. Obviously! Ah yes, and the addition of two hairbands cannot go unnoticed. Do not try to put these hairbands in the tiny dictator's hair of course, as screeching mutiny will ensue.

The final element to make this festive little unit complete? The requisite dirty ziploc bag containing more stones and shells. I have tried to replace the bag, which housed some raw vegetables I took to work for lunch, but my attempt was roundly rejected. Vehemently and with much emotion.

I tried to remove the seahorse one night - her screams of agony were so high-pitched, wolves bayed beneath our windows and walls weeped with blood. I took these photos when she was asleep, so scared am I of her wrath.

DAMMIT WOMAN! RESPECT MAH AUTHORITAH!

I try desperately not to laugh, but seriously, when a small being no taller than your hip goes all postal on you about the most minute thing - that shit is funny. I watch her pick all of the shrunken peas out of a readymade dinner and carefully place them in the cupholder portion of her highchair tray. I supervise her in the bath, lining up all the shampoo bottles and having a fit if the wetness of the bathtub causes one to slip slightly from its rigid line. I know that if I give her milk in the wrong cup, I will spend the next 10 minutes suffering for my sins.

I wonder what sort of OCD future awaits. I have faith that at the very least, I will not run out of blogging fodder, perhaps ever.