Evil From the Bowels of Girl Gormet

The weekend dawned bright and early, and before the coffee had begun to course through my veins Princess bounded toward me and said, "I can bake cupcakes today! With you!!! If I have a Good Day!"

Fully not expecting this elusive Good Day, I replied, "Princess, all you need to bake cupcakes is twenty minutes without screaming." And I poured my coffee.

Several minutes later, the Cuddle Bear approached me and asked me something something something basement something something.

What?
Just a minute Mommy. Princess! Princess!
Ummm. Excuse me for a minute. Princess! Princess!

What?
Would you please ask me for what you want instead of sending your baby sister to do it for you?
Sure! Can I bake cupcakes! With the Cuddle Bear!

Oh.

And, like in all my interactions with Princess, I am left conflicted. Princess has been talking about baking cupcakes with me for weeks. I have been quasi-dreading baking these cupcakes for weeks. And now, with no explanation whatsoever, I have been dumped for the Cuddle Bear.

Someone bossable (at least for the next six months, anyway. I don't believe she will be bossable by Princess much past the age of five. So I hope Princess enjoys it while it lasts).

So how am I supposed to feel? I let sad, relieved, and angry bounce around in my head; I finally selected "relieved."

The confirmation was the strong odor of burnt sugar.

I sat down to my breakfast. Peanut sat down next to me.
Crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch
Wow. Those sure sound crunchy.
Yeah (crunch crunch crunch). Princess lied to me (crunch crunch crunch). She said this was the best one (crunch crunch). And it's not (crunch). It's hard (crunch crunch crunch crunch).
Um, I don't know that Princess lied, honey. That very well may be the best one.
Maybe (crunch crunch crunch).

Then Princess came in, and presented me with a half-chewed cupcake.
Here Mom! Do you want this? It's not very good. I don't like it very much.
I put my head down on the table, and covered it with my book, and pretended very very hard I was alone. Princess walked back out.

Josh moaned a bit about her inability to ultimately pick me to do things with, but I said, you know what? If it were any of the other kids I'd be thrilled she could do this independently.

I spoke too soon.

I walked into the kitchen, and called in Princess. I reminded her that clean-up was part of baking. So she wiped down the counter (good), threw her cupcake maker in the sink (bad), and left.

I tailed her.
Princess, tossing your cupcake maker into the sink for me to clean is not the same as cleaning it.
Oh.
She ran some water over it and set it to the side of the sink.
Princess, when I do dishes I fill the sink with soap and hot water and rub them with a dish cloth. You've seen me. You've even done it yourself. Your cupcake maker will not get clean if you don't do it that way.
It's good enough.
Ah. And I went into the basement to stare at the storage shelves until I could keep my mouth shut.

Before I was done, Princess came down. With the filthy gooey cupcake maker. And she put it away.
Um, Princess, you're going to have to keep that on a shelf in the garage.
Why?
Because cockroaches and rats like to nibble on things covered in old goey food, and I don't want cockroaches and rats inside the house.

And that's kind of where the day died. She deliberately didn't follow any instructions, first trying to store the cupcake maker on the doorstep, and then underneath the suburban.

Josh sent her outside. Where she went. And immediately ripped off her coat, hat, and mittens, went to the back of the house, and paced back and forth screaming in snowpants and boots with her skirt hanging out the back. I gave her three minutes, hoping the outdoors would regulate her like it usually does and she'd put her warm things back on. But it didn't, so I brought her in. Where she raged for an hour in her room. Because she didn't want to wipe goo off her toy.

When she was done, a note was waiting for her:

Cupcake Maker
circle one:

• Put Cupcake Maker in a sink full of hot water and soap, rub the goo off, and dry it
• Put it in a box on a shelf in the garage
• Throw it away

She circled the first and rubbed the rest, including the paper, out with a brown marker. Then she informed me that she needed help because she couldn't remember how to get the toy out of the box.

It's on a shelf in the garage. I don't want to think about it anymore. I'll figure out what to do this summer when it starts to smell.