Elegant was a bit, um, difficult this morning during that final push to get everyone dressed and out the door. Much cajoling was necessary and finally I explained just exactly what would happen if she didn't get her ass in gear.
(No need to call Social Services, no children were harmed this morning, not even that she-devil who occasionally inhabits my seven-year-old's body.)
First Elegant didn't want to get dress and spent some time "thinking" (daydreaming) instead of choosing a dress. Then she didn't want to brush her teeth and, when she did, was missing more teeth than she was hitting.
I walked into the bathroom and, in a my best drill sergeant's voice barked, "Brush your teeth now!"
Elegant responded, "You're not the boss of me."
Me, "Um, actually El, I am."
Some discussion followed, during which Elegant tried to ascertain exactly whom I am the boss of. She found it difficult to believe that Pete would be on that list, but I assured her that he is. Maybe not all of the time, but definitely part of the time.
I wonder if he knows that.