My Little Olive

Dear Olive:

This morning was chaos what with trying to feed your brother who as we know is picky, picky, picky. He likes his eggs flat and dry and not slimy and he wants an omelette with cheese and folded just so. But I've always been able to count on you to eat your eggs however I make them, so imagine my surprise/disappointment when you decided you wanted your egg flat too. It was more than I could take on three hours of uninterrupted sleep. I came up with some clever response that went something like this:

Mom: You know what? This isn't a restaurant. At a restaurant you get to order your food and get it just the way you like it. This is home and at home you get your food the way I make it.
You: Let's go to a restaurant!

Kicked to the curb by a three year old. It reminds me of that time in high school when the director (English teacher) of our Spring play got so upset with us that she yelled "If you guys think I'm stupid then don't say anything!" There was not a peep from anyone. Not a peep.

Tomorrow we're going to see the Vivienne Westwood exhibit at the De Young. You're going to fit right in there with your red, yellow, and blue striped pants, your yellow socks, your red glittery shoes, your blue and white handkerchief print dress, and the Dora party hat you've been wearing for the past two weeks. Ta!