Yesterday my husband, Zeb, was attempting to get Aubrey ready for kindergarten. She wears uniforms, so you would think that all he would have to do is grab a uniform, pour her a bowl of cereal and they could be out the door. But there are dress code rules, certain shirts are OK with skirts and not with jumpers, and while Aubrey has a firm grasp of these rules, her Daddy does not.
Zeb was trying to do me a favor and let me sleep late, because our three year old and one year old were still sleeping and we had nowhere to go. But at 7am Zeb shook me awake and said, “I need help. Aubrey is sprawled out in her floor crying about how I don’t understand the rules and she needs help. Help. Please.”
I got out of the bed and walked to Aubrey’s room to find her exactly as he had described. She cried harder when she saw me and said, “Momma! Daddy is making me crazy!” I hugged her and helped her find the clothes she wanted while she continued to lament trying to get dressed with her Daddy’s help.
“He wanted me to wear a T-SHIRT with my skirt!” She cried.
“I know, honey, he was trying to help you.”
“But I told him I could only wear my button shirt with my skirt! And he didn’t care!”
“He just didn’t know.”
About this time, I had finished braiding Aubrey’s hair and she was dampening her hands to pat down some of the frizz from her curls. Zeb walked into the bathroom holding a toasted waffle in his hand and set it on the bathroom counter. “Here you go Aubrey,” he said, trying once again to be helpful.
Aubrey turned to me with her hands on her hips and burst into tears, “DO YOU SEE MOMMA? I want my waffle ON A PLATE! WITH SYRUP! IN THE KITCHEN! SEE, Momma!”