Honest Girl is fourteen and a half months old.  By fifteen months (according to her pediatrician) she has to be completely weaned from her bottle.  She currently only takes two bottles: one before naptime, and one before bedtime.  Using the “just rip it off like a Band-aid” method of parenting, today has been the first day of no bottles.  At all.  Ever again.  Here’s Honest Girl’s response.


Okay, Mama, okay.  This morning, you gave me my milk in my sippy cup, which was wrong, but I let it slide anyway.  Hey, you’re under a lot of stress, I get it.  Grammy and Doodah are coming this weekend to see our new house, so you gotta get their room set up for Big Bed Time.  (They *would have* really loved that little fort I made this morning out of all those cardboard boxes and plastic bags. But, sheesh.  A girl takes one measly pair of scissors, a couple of drywall screws, daddy’s big electric drill, and the plug from an unplugged—unplugged—lamp, and you’d think I was planning another Waco. I was just trying for a little reality in my pretend time. It’s called verisimilitude, Mom. Look it up).

Then, you totally lost it when you finally found where I had hidden my banana from yesterday.  But that’s okay.  You just really suck at fruit hide and seek. Don’t worry.  Those sliced grapes from this morning are in a much easier spot.  And if you still can’t find them by tonight, just keep waiting.  Those ants from yesterday’s banana are bound to find those grapes soon.  They’re resourceful little guys.  They’ll help you out.

Then, to top it all off, the guys who were bringing Grammy and Doodah’s Big Bed were late, so we didn’t have time to run to the big, colorful, “no touch” store.  Hey, I understand.  I was getting anxious over that myself.  I mean, what were we going to do?  Have Big Bed Time on the couch??

So, yeah, rough morning.  I sympathize.  But now you’ve gone too far.  You’re trying to put me down for a nap.  Without my milk or my bottle.  Without the two things I have had before my naptime for every single day of my life.  Without my nightcap.  Without the things that get me to relax.  Now how do I sound, Mama?  Do I sound relaxed?  No?  Surprise, surprise.

And what are you “giving” me in exchange for my milk and my bottle?  A story.  A freakin’ story!  One that you made up!  What am I supposed to do?  How am I supposed to respond to this, huh?  “Oh, it’s a story about a young knight named Beanie who was smaller than all the other knights, but she used her cunning instead of her brawn to defeat her enemies.  How touching.  How inspiring.  Now I’ll never try drugs!”  Thanks, Mom, for the nine minutes of utter disappointment.  I hope you enjoyed that “accidental” elbow to your solar plexus. Now stop being the creative type and just put on Up if you want me to be entertained so badly.

I just—hey, HEY!  What are you doing now?  Don’t you close that door!

Now what have you done?  You’ve left me.  I have been making it VERY clear that I will not be napping right now without my milk and my bottle, and what do you DO??  You turn off the light, put me in my crib, and close the door.  You walk away. You abandon me.  In my hour of obvious need (Oh?  You don’t think I’ll be able to keep this up for an hour?  Bet me, Mama.  Bet me.).  So now I have to ask: Who put you up to this?  Was it daddy?  That guy’s always been a troublemaker.  Maybe it was Grandma.  Sticking her nose—.  .  .  No, wait, I know.  It was that evil witch doctor, the pediatrician, wasn’t it?  I’m telling you, Mama, that lady’s had it in for me since day one.  Always making me get naked.  Every appointment.  No matter what’s wrong with me.  And, then I have to sit, naked, on that high vinyl table.  Do you know what happens to a bare butt on vinyl?  Huh?  Do you?  Stuck butt.  Rubber cement rump.  Like she’s super-gluing my hiney in place.

But that’s always been her plan, hasn’t it?  Because when I’m stuck there, I’m an easier target.  For that cold, round, metal thing she puts on my chest.  For that tiny flashlight she shoves in my ears. (And then she tells me I can’t play with it!  I’m being violated, and am denied the slightest inkling of pleasure in the meantime.  Insult to injury, Mama.  Like when I tried to help clean up the sticky spot on the carpet by pouring apple juice on it.)  And, then she brings out the main event.  Sweaty, sticky baby can’t roundhouse kick mean pediatrician in the face when she brings out those needles. (I’m too exhausted by the effort of trying to squeeze out a poopy surprise for the good doctor to show how I feel about her “techniques.”)  Oh, and there are always needles.  I know that you’re always denying it.  “Oh, it’ll just be a few little pokes.”  But you don’t know.  My thighs hurt for days—DAYS—just so that lady can get her sick, twisted kicks.

And you, Mama.  You actually help to hold me down.   You listen to every little insane thing that quack has to say.  “By fifteen months, she needs to be completely off the bottle, even before bed.”  I heard her say that.  It was two months ago, but I remember it.  Then, yesterday, you and Daddy were talking to that cashier, “Oh, no. I guess she’s fourteen months already.  Wow!  I could’ve sworn she just had her birthday!”  And now here we are.  I see how it is.

Judas.  Get back in here, Mama, so I can see your thirty pieces of silver.  And bring me my milk and my bottle.


Honest Girl fell asleep after twenty minutes of complete baby melt-down.  I’m making Honest Dad do bedtime tonight.  I plan to listen in on the monitor while eating a lot of ice cream.