polishing my crown

Apparently whining is a genetic thing. Grace has been working on her skills with diligence.

"Mo-om, tell Julia to stop"

"Mo-om, Ollie hurt me."

"Mo-om, I want a snack. No, not that snack, I want another snack."

I reply with the usual "Grace, can you use a different tone" or "Grace, do you know how to ask nicely?" That sort of thing. But there comes a time when I feel too tired (and too irritated) to listen to the nasal "Mo-om". So this afternoon I tried a different tack; one that is either totally brilliant or kind of mean. I can't really tell.

The first time "Mo-om" escaped Grace's lips I replied in kind:

"Gra-ace, I'm tired. Gra-ace, I want a snack, I need a snack. Gra-ace, I want a snack, get me a snack. I'm hungry. Gra-ace, Ollie's touching me. Gra-ace, I don't want that snack, I want another snack. Gra-ace, I want to watch cartoons. Gra-ace, I want to watch a different cartoon. Gra-ace, I want milk, get me milk."

Her reaction was priceless. Totally priceless. She was dumbfounded. She didn't know if I was serious, so at one point a smile crept across her face. Then she got a little irritated. I wouldn't stop whining. Finally she climbed up on the couch and covered her head with a pillow. I stopped and she sat up, and the following conversation took place:

Grace: "Mom, you're a mom."

Me: "Yes, I am, Grace."

Grace: "That means you aren't supposed to whine. It hurts my ears."

Me: "Do you think it hurts my ears when you whine?"

Grace: "Yes."

Me: "Okay, why don't we both try not to whine."

Grace: "That's a good idea."

My poor, poor child, little does she know that I've been whining for thirty plus years. It will be a long time before I am ready to relinquish my crown: Miss Whine of 1979 reigns supreme.