Please, let me whine...

...about my little whiner.

My sweet Tootie -- what happened?

Once upon a time, we were so in synch. Now, I WANT TO PUT A NAIL GUN TO MY HEAD when I hear a sentence prefaced with: "Ma-MAAAA!"

It's the tone. It's driving me mad. I find myself complaining to the dog, who really could care less, so long as you leave enough crumbs scattered about for her to follow and consume until she pukes. (God forbid we have a vomit-free household anytime in the near future.)

You'll wear only pink. You hate pink. Your dinner isn't edible, the toilet is too high, the bath water is too hot, you can't find your spotted kitty, the movie has too many previews, the five-minute commute from school to home is too long, the radio is too loud, it's not loud enough... "MA-MAAAAAA...!!!"

The morning survey of your clearly inadequate wardrobe is enough to make me want to bang my head against a concrete wall and plead to be committed.

I hate my clothes too, but do you hear me grousing about it each morning? (OK, well I do, but only to myself.)

The experts say I should walk away from clothing battles. That you are learning to make decisions and are reveling in some new form of independence.

Independence be damned. Do you have any idea what kind of self-restraint I practice when I allow you to leave the house in a yellow gingham SUN DRESS when it is 20 FREAKING DEGREES outside?

One day you will. And I pray that your daughter (for you are destined to have one) will insist on pairing said outfit with hot pink cowboy boots and turquoise kneesocks, just so you, too, can spend the morning shuddering over your coffee, picturing and repicturing today's hideous attire and wondering which parents at the day care are talking behind your back...