Well it happened. My whole six and a half years of motherhood has been blessedly free of this one until now.
I don’t like you, Mama!
There she is, Miss Tate, all two and a half years of her, telling me just that. Her brother has probably thought it, but he’s never said it.
All because I wouldn’t read her book. The book her father had just finished reading to her, while she was stalling and saying goodnight, already a half an hour past bedtime. Worst mother in the world, right?
Rationally, you know she’s just pissy and tired. But oh, doesn’t it feel like a punch in the gut to hear those words directed at you?
She followed up the next day with, “You my best girl Mama, my best girl in da whole universe,” and made me imagine that maybe we still have a few years before I’m hearing that she dislikes me on the regular. At least, I sure hope so.
And Tate, even when you don’t like me? You’re my best girl too.