When Horns Lock

Sophie is mad at me. Lately she has had a thing for "nap pants." She likes to come over in her pajamas, or change into comfortable bottoms to lounge around in and nap in. I asked Sarah to send over something cozy for her to wear at my house on Monday. All was fine until Patrick was coming to pick Sophie up after work and I wanted her to change back into her jeans. It was a perfect storm: the "nap pants" happened to be short capris and it wasn't warm enough; she didn't fall asleep during her nap time, instead spending that time undressing her dolls and singing, so she was crabby; and I was in a hurry to leave. Two bullheads collided. I asked her, and asked her, then told her, then finally went to change her myself. She kicked her feet at me, and I called her a "brat!" She started sobbing as dramatically as only a three-and-one-half year old girl can. Five minutes later, tears dried, we were in Patrick's car when from the backseat we hear,"Grandma called me a brat!" No mention of the mani/pedi with the shiny undercoat of chrome nail polish, or the sparkley topcoat of glitter. Not a word about the unicorn cookies I frosted and sprinkled for her lunch treat. Nada about the dollhouse I set up and played with her. Just that I CALLED HER A BRAT!