2 Going on 13

Sometimes I forget how old Kennady is. In fact, sometimes I am very convinced she is 13. When I start to get really angry she says, "Mom, I'm two years old." Thanks for the reminder.

She says, "I won't do it, and there's nothing you can do about it." Really, wanna bet? I don't think she'll say that one again.

We say it's time for bed, she says, "What?" Not in a "I didn't hear you" kind of way, but in an "Excuse me, I don't think so" kind of way.

Then occasionally she insists on putting on a dance leotard over her clothes and calls it a princess dress. And, of course, the only shoes that go with that outfit are her red rain boots. Then she throws a famous two-year-old tantrum, with the jumping and screaming, and then I can see the two-year-old. Although, maybe teenagers do this too.

Or she come to me with her Tinkerbell dress and says, "Mom, this is for my wedding day. This is going to be great."

I'd like to make her stop growing up. But I suppose growing up comes with its advantages, like learning how to use the potty. Yesterday she was playing in her room and runs out saying, "I've got to go potty!" But she has no pants or panties on. I find them wadded up in the corner covered with poop. But the poop is missing. "Kennady! Where is the poop?" "It's in the closet, Mom" Naturally. "Why?" "I hide it." Yes, yes she did. Her closet got cleaned out unexpectedly. I really don't think it's fair that I have to potty train this kid twice. We were done, finished, task completed. And then she got that stupid UTI and we are back to square one. And nothing seems to be enough incentive to make her want to do it this time.