Baby Rage

Punk has some control issues. She has to be in control at all time.
When something doesn't go her way, The Man and I grab out ear plugs and hold on.
It gets loud.
There are tears. (The Man can't help himself!)
And the child becomes the most pitiful, screeching, red faced, weeping, snot nosed baby in the world.
Ya gotta love her.
One of the boys takes sippie cup. She gives him a few warning screeches before unleashing a sound that makes the boy's bowels turn to jelly and making him consider entering a monastery at 4 years old.
The Man tells her no. She stops, waits for him to reconsider, because she simply cannot believe the audacity of him, and then lets loose a wail that has him reeling back and holding up his hands in surrender.
Fifteen minutes later, one of two things happens--he gives in or she wears out.
He normally gives in.
It's amazing to watch a tiny woman in training line up her men and put them in their places.
My sons bring her treats and drinks and toys and ask about her. Yes, they fear her, and in that fear, she has won respect.
The Man, despite all evidence to the contrary, thinks Punk can do no wrong. Even as she takes off her diaper and smears poo on the walls.
I just sit back and watch, proud of my prodigy and hopeful for the future if, at fourteen months, Punk can control the male gender so readily.
I will go to my grave knowing I left the male gender in very capable, controlling hands!