Rudyard Kipling wrote a poem in 1911 called The Female of the Species.  I don't know if Kipling ever had a daughter, but his words ring true as we have a three year old female of the species in our house.

I want to start by saying and stressing that Gigi is my joy.  My absolute joy.  But she is a three year old female.  A female who, I don't care what you say, is not cut from the same cloth as her mother.  This presents some problems because I have a son who is cut from the same cloth and that allows me to read and predict actions, emotions, motivations.  An inability to predict those in Gigi is killing me.  Very slowly.

Gigi turned 3 and it took her 35 minutes to decide on a cake for her Princess party.  35 minutes.  It took me three minutes to pick out a wedding dress ("That one, there, on sale.  Great.") and it took a photo and a "whatever" to get my wedding cake done.  35 minutes for a cake for a 3 year old's birthday party was giving me an ulcer.

Gigi also has become a kleptomaniac.  I suppose she needed a hobby.  She has an amazing ability to climb my dresser and get into my jewelry box.  We've found a lot of my things - necklace in the DVD player, wedding band in the rocking chair (we found it after we took the chair apart), and earrings in a box in her play kitchen.  Still missing, of course, are my engagement ring and my mom ring.  My brother said she probably saw one of those "Cash for Gold" commercials and decided to take advantage of a bad economy to get herself a financial nest egg.  At any rate, I still have jewelry missing that I can't afford to replace.  On the other hand, I now have a new hobby to accompany her kleptomania - metal detecting.

 In her most brilliant moment since turning three she took advantage of my potty break to make me win "Bad Mommy of the Year" award.  In our defense, we childproofed this house because unlike her brother, Gigi needed us to childproof things.  Unfortunately, if you have a child with enough maschivious ingenuity to want to get into things that are dangerous, the child locks are not going to stop them.  And when you combine maschivious ingenuity with outrageous independence and a dry chest cough you have a recipe for disaster at 9 am.

To begin with, I make scrambled eggs for breakfast every morning for my kids.  Every morning.  And the thing is that I hate eggs.  I hate the way they look.  I hate the way they smell.  I don't eat eggs.  But I make them, every morning, for my kids who love scrambled eggs because I love these kids so much that I stand there, making eggs while holding my breath so I don't have to smell the eggs and want to throw up.  That's love.  But this particular Friday in question I woke up and I just didn't feel like making eggs.  It was a Friday and we had chocolate chip cookies.  So I let the kids eat cookies and drink Diet Coke for breakfast.  You all without sin may cast the first stone.

This particular Friday was also my first day as a volunteer to deliver meals to elderly people in our area.  I had to be at the drop off at 11:30 am.  At 8:30 am I went to get ready for the day and realized there was an open bottle, nearly empty, of children's night time cough medicine.  I now know, for a fact, that in a crisis situation with my kids I am rubbish.  Complete rubbish.  Freak out ensued.  I called Poison Control and I was so upset it took me a while to get out the words "Three year old.  Cold medicine.  Help!"  The woman was extremely calm, helpful, reassuring.  She said it happens and not to worry.  Ha.

Then, it happened. 

"Ma'am, did your daughter have breakfast this morning?"  The woman asked. 

"Yes."  I said. 

"Good.  That means she didn't have an empty stomach.  What did she have for breakfast?"

Dang, dang, dang, dang, dang.  "Um, two and a half chocolate chip cookies and some Diet Coke."  I said. 

Silence.

"Ma'am, what did she have for breakfast though?  Not snack, but breakfast?"

"Two and a half chocolate chip cookies and some Diet Coke."  I said.  In my mind I was imagining her hitting a button under her desk that lights up a warning for the state to know a bad parent was on the phone.  I imagined them pulling up, surrounding my house in unmarked vans, SWAT style.

"Well..."  The lady didn't know what to say.  "I'd say give her something to drink, like milk, and watch her.  She'll either be really tired, really hyper, or really agitated.  And there's a chance, a slim chance, for seizures."

I called Chris, hysterical.  I could not deliever meals to the elderly and take care of a seizing child!  So Chris came home and helped out.  Good man.  And there were no seizures, no sleepines, no hyperactivity.  Nope, Gigi goes all out agitated.  All out.  As in do not look at her.  Do not talk to her.  Do not talk about her.  Don't think about her.  She was a nasty little thing. 

Finally when she detoxed we had a good, long talk about drugs - an intervention, if you will. 

"I was sick."  She said.

"Then you tell Mommy next time."

"Fine."  She said.  "But I'm a big girl." 

"Not that big."  I said as we put all medicines in a tackle box with a combination lock on it.

"You look sick Mommy."  She said, eyeing me.

"Yeah."  I said.

"I'll take care of you."  She said.  The phrase angel of death crossed my mind, because the female of the species is more deadly than the male.