Diva Intervention Plan

My daughter  lives in the
sandbox. She’d sleep there if we’d let
her and she seems to actually enjoy the taste of semi-wet play sand. She often uses it as a dippin' sauce for her chicken nuggets.  This past weekend I was changing my daughter’s clothes because, as usual, she managed to cover her outfit and body in sand.  I opened her closet to get a comfy knit summer dress out and,
as I was pulling it
off of the hanger, she started to shake her head from side
to side and say, “No” continually. She pointed to something specific in the closet and said “Ugh” in a demanding
tone. “Ugh” can be loosely translated to mean, “give me that” in Tatum-speak. She did not want to wear the dress that I
had picked out and had picked out what she believed was the appropriate alternative. She has yet to reach her second birthday and
she already has opinions about what she wears.

Through trial and error I found the dress she wanted, a pink
woven cotton dress that was more appropriate for church or a party than for
outdoor play. She wanted it though and it was not a battle I was willing to fight. She walked out of her room and went to show her dress to my In-Laws
(they were visiting for the weekend). Clearly fishing for compliments, she batted her eyelashes and did
a little strut. She did her best
Melinda Doolittle unassumingly bashful impression when the compliments came but it was clear
she expected them. She knows how cute
she is and she seems to be a master at laying on the charm. My daughter is, at the tender age of almost
two, a card-carrying diva. Before I
know it she’ll be demanding Evian-only baths and Non-Fat Grande Caramel
Machiatos with her Honey Nut Cheerios. I
need a diva intervention plan.