Parents vs. Toddler (it's a tie)

This evening Daisy had a MEGA fit. A tantrum to be reckoned with. And like always, it came out of nowhere.

In the car on the way home from school:

DAISY: "What we doin' today mumma?"
ME: "We're going to go home, get changed, and go to Trader Joes."
DAISY: "Oh, I LOVE Trader Joes!!!!!!! Yay! Trader Jooooooooooes!" (Said with high-pitched excitement that could only be mustered by a two year old when presented with an opportunity to grocery shop.)

At home:

ME: "Ok Daisy, let's get changed so we can go to Trader Joes."
DAISY: "Nope."
ME: "Well, do you want to wear your school clothes instead?"
DAISY: "Nope."
ME: "So let's get changed then."
DAISY: "No. I DON'T WANT TO go to Trader Joes!"

(Repeat in some form or fashion for 15 minutes, with increasing emphasis on both sides.)

Next step: sheer force. I begin stripping her pants and diaper off. She begins bucking me like a donkey. She is now flailing her bare ass and girl bits around the floor in a full-body roll-and-jerk. I can see that, in reality, I'm not going to get very far pursuing this tactic.

ME: "Ok, well, if you won't go where we need to go, we're not going to play with you."

(This was a mistake, I realize. Bargaining and leveraging NEVER works, plus it didn't really further my goal: getting to the grocery store. Man, kids are great at sending you off track!)

Then follows about half an hour where we ignore her, I take a shower, and hubby kicks back on the couch, studiously refusing to participate in games or read books.

When I'm done with my shower, I come down the stairs and announce ever-so-boldly to Ms. Daisy's half nakedness: "Ok, so here's what's going to happen. We're going to get changed -or not - and we're going to Trader Joe's."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!! I don't want to go to Trader Joooooooooooooooooe's! I don't WANT to!"

Again, repeat with multitude of rephrasing along with soothing interjections from Hubby, who still believes that if you can just find the right combination of words to ask nicely, it will get us somewhere. (He is so the optimist!)

It's now an hour later and we need food. We don't have basics like milk and eggs. We need to go to the store and as much as it would be delightful to go on my own and leave her to sulk at home, I refuse to be bested by a two year old.

This is a hill I am plainly willing to die on.

So I go in, diaper in-hand. Bucking, jerking, rolling, flinging ensues. I am completely unable to get two legs into the diaper alone. I get one in and, as I'm forcing in the other, she's pulled the first one out. I don't have enough hands, legs, knees, and elbows to simultaneously pin her down, hold the line on diaper leg #1, and get diaper leg #2 in the hole. Hubby attempts some form of gentle restraint but it's like wrestling an alligator: the only sure way of success is a sedative and we're all out.*

At some point she writhes across the living room floor, us in hot pursuit, pushes her legs against me and smacks her head hard into the legs of the entertainment center. (An effective delay tactic. Kid's smarter than I give her credit for). Now we feel bad and do indeed delay the proceedings to comfort her. We do have the diaper on, though. (Score!)

A further fifteen minutes of soothing later and we're up one diaper but still down a pair of pants and shoes. So still no closer to the front door. I make the executive decision to go as we are: school-uniform t-shirt and diaper only. (I lost my pride a long time ago. Right about the time I lost my flat stomach.)

Ms. Daisy walks willingly out the door but, when faced with the prospect of actually getting in the car, FLIPS OUT. The voracity and volume of screaming should only have been appropriate to being filleted alive. How hubby eventually pinned her into the car seat, I'll never know.

"What do you think we should do?" he asks me.

"Keep going," I say, stubbornly. "We need to go to the store."

And in the car? She sang all the way there.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And, just to prove we did, indeed, traverse TJ's in nothing but a t-shirt and diaper...

(Note: Hubby is not about to smack her, he's feeding her jerky.)

She may look like a peanut but don't be fooled, Daisy is a power house.
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* to be clear, I jest. Benadryl doesn't work fast enough.