Mrs. Robot-o
NS April 23rd, 2009
I have discovered that if I talk like a robot, The Noble Child will do whatever I ask.
Yes, seriously.
This came about in another of our epic battles to get her dressed and her hair combed, wherein, in desperation, I summoned up my best authoritative and monotonous voice and said “Sit. Still. Please. Robot said so.” Automatically, TNC stopped wriggling and crying and allowed me to part her hair and put them in “hairtails” (pigtails/bunches to you and me). She grinned every time this new voice asked her to do something (put on socks, do a wee, etc..) and said with great enthusiasm, “Okay, Robot!”
The rest of the day was spent issuing orders in a mechanic overtone.
“Pick. Up. Your. Toys.”
“No. More. Milk. Today.”
“Time. For. Bed. Now.”
I patted myself on the back. How genius was this robot act?!
Turns out, not that genius.
In a shop yesterday, TNC wouldn’t stop running away and touching things on the shelves and I was in a rush to get back home in time for our online food delivery time slot. As I perused the aisle for an appropriate birthday card and jiggled a whiny TNB on my hip, I caught sight of TNC about to pick up a very delicate and breakable item.
Now, every parent knows that cat-like reflexes enable us to spring into action the moment a child puts their grubby little paw on something breakable (and expensive, no doubt) in a shop, but in 0.2 seconds I furiously calculated the time-distance equation and came to the conclusion that the only way to reach her in time would involve dropping TNB on his head and performing a running round-off back handspring reminiscent of a 14-year-old Romanian Olympic gymnast with glitter in her hair and thigh muscles that could strangle a grizzly bear. Unfortunately (or fortunately?), I possess neither.
I knew the only thing that would make my daughter stop dead in her tracks was Robot. She’d never listen to Mummy but Robot…well, she’d only been around for a couple days and hadn’t had sufficient time to be deemed a nag or a killjoy and subsequently ignored every time she opens her mouth.
And so it was that I had to say, quite loudly, “Put. That. Down. NOW. For. The. Love. Of. God,” complete with jerky arm movements. The shopkeeper looked at me in complete befuddlement and a nearby customer (a teenage boy, no less) sniggered. I stared straight ahead as I walked stiff-jointedly towards TNC, figuring that I might as well play the role completely and convincingly if I was going to do it at all. There would be no half-assed robot acts here!
I looked down at TNC, who had calmly placed the item back on the shelf, and said in my monotone: “Let’s. Go.” She grinned beatifically, took my hand and said “Okay. Mummy Robot” in a very impressive robot imitation for a three year-old. We shuffled out of the shop, hand in hand, pushing Baby Robot in his RoboPram.
I’d have loved to be at that shopkeeper’s dinner table that night.
