The Brat
To me, she is, at times, a brat. At other times, I see her sweetness, the light hearted ever playful child. The adolescent little girl with the most active imagination, who is artist, clown, and antagonist all in the same ever-changing body that presently at 12 is almost as tall as I am.
Why can this girl who I, upon her mother's request, wake up early in the morning to get her to her school bus and often pick her up at the same location later in the day, get so under my skin that I want to burn her out like an inflamed wart? I've had more obnoxious, circuitous, aggravating arguments with this 10 year old, 11 year old, and now 12 year old child than I want to admit to, and often it's over the most inane things. Like who gets to sit in my chair. My throne, which she claims as soon as she walks in the living room and often remains until bedtime.
Why can this girl who I, upon her mother's request, wake up early in the morning to get her to her school bus and often pick her up at the same location later in the day, get so under my skin that I want to burn her out like an inflamed wart? I've had more obnoxious, circuitous, aggravating arguments with this 10 year old, 11 year old, and now 12 year old child than I want to admit to, and often it's over the most inane things. Like who gets to sit in my chair. My throne, which she claims as soon as she walks in the living room and often remains until bedtime.
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