Bringing out the top shelf parenting for the neighbors

I wrote on my personal blog yesterday about being socially awkward.

Today was a collection of errors. I'd purchased new white patent leather shoes for Lauren yesterday, and she begged to wear them. I replied that wearing them to church would be a better choice because that way if they were terribly uncomfortable, as new shoes sometimes are, church is only a couple of hours. But she insisted she'd tried them on and sometimes you have to let them learn these lessons themselves. I bought them a half size large since that had always been right before for dress shoes. These were a half size too big.

It's Lindsay's birthday today, so I was trying to allow as many of her "big girl" choices as possible. I let her select her clothing from another option (including showing her 3 pairs of identical white socks). She chose her milk cup (although nearly had a tantrum because yellow wasn't an option). She opted to walk to the bus stop rather than ride in the stroller. The way we handled this yesterday was sort of like a game of red-light/green-light where you can't move unless you are holding hands. It is a harder game when your sister is skipping 10 feet ahead. She finally asked to be carried.

Not that I need an excuse to fly off the handle about something, but I'd set up the coffee pot without coffee, so my reward was puzzlement over water light with milk. And the moment of how much coffee did I put in, I don't recall putting it in...oh, because I didn't put it in... was probably priceless, but I'd had exactly a sip of the replacement coffee.

I opted to quickly cross while there was a contractor van about a block away, which meant I had to walk briskly, but Lauren had to hustle. When she saw the van approaching, she freaked out and stopped in the middle of the road at which point I shrieked, "Hurry up, Lauren! What are you doing?!" Her too big shoes slipped on the asphalt as I yelled, "Move it!" As her feet hit the safety of the curb, I began a tirade of "When I tell you to move, you move" sort of blather just as I notice a newish VW station wagon on the curb -- the PTO president and her son with windows open. We waved to Frankie, and I turned my back to quietly continue my rant, knowing it was already too late.