Rock, Paper, Scissors

Zora is now a full-fledged toddler and is definitely acting the part. She's discovered a little thing called her opinion and believes everyone is entitled to it.

Example: Yesterday morning she wobbled over to the coffeetable and picked up a pen. Pens are innocuous, right? Wrong. In the hands of toddler a pen is a dangerous weapon. Eyes could be poked out, caps swallowed, carpets covered in ink. Like any cautious, loving parent I take the pen away. Within seconds, I see the crimson tide rising in her face, filling up cheeks, and blossoming across her eyes and forehead. Her eyes crinkle up into squinty hyphens and she squeezes out two salty tears and one, big shriek.

"Ahhh!!!"

Scanning the room, I see a comb and hand it to her. She eyes it carefully then pointedly throws it to the floor.

"Ehhhh!!" she announces and sticks out her lower lip.

I never imagined life with a toddler would be an eternal game of Rock, Paper, Scissors. Pen trumphs comb, but what trumphs Pen? Then it comes to me.

"Waffle?" I ask Zora.

"Waa," she says, the tears still glistening on her cheeks, brown eyes, expectant.

A minute later, she's happily munching on a blueberry waffle. Waffle trumps pen.