MY DAUGHTER. Ok. So I love the little bugger to pieces. Because she’s cute as a button, as people say. But…is a button really that fucking cute? I never looked at a pair of jeans and was all, “Shit! I’ma buy these bitches because they have the cutest buttons in the history of ever!”
In reality, buttons are pains in the asses. They fall off, get stuck, you’re too drunk to be able to successfully maneuver it into its hole, yeah. I don’t think they’re cute. It’s a fucking button for God’s sake.
Now, here we have my button. She’s got a cheesy grin, likes to play Peek-a-boo, tries to bite electrical cords and if she thinks I’m not watching, she’s going for the litter box for sure. She knows the word, “NO.” But she thinks I’m kidding. Like, she’ll stop and look at me with a “Bitch, you don’t really think you have the authority to talk to me like this, do you?” look on her face. And the minute my eyes are not giving her the mommy stare, she’s all, “That’s what I thought.” And thinks that gives her the right to keep at it.
This is where I pretend to get up and “NO” her even louder. This results in frustrating fake crying complete with the worst thing in the word:
Kid’s got it down pat. She knows I can’t take it because it is so loud and deafening and scary because I am convinced that the neighbors are going to report me for child abuse because this kid screams like I’m trying to cook her in the oven like the chicken she is. (Yes, Chicken is my nickname for her.) This makes me scramble to make her stop and I swear I would give her a year’s supply of Pixie Stix if that’s what it would take for her not to try to alert the authorities. Because guaranfuckingteed, the minute they walk in is when she gets all shy and acts like the perfect little angel-baby with long eyelashes and an innocent smile that could launch a thousand ships and they’re all, “HOW COULD YOU ABUSE THAT POOR CHILD!” And then they take her and give her to her tranny daddy and she really screws up her life at less than a year old.
Case in point: my mother. She swears that every time she has her, she is as perfect as perfect does. I’m all, “ARE YOU SERIOUS? She doesn’t yell at you and boss you around and try to smack you across your face and throw food at you?” And she says “Nope. She’s as good as gold.”
Whatthefuckever. I run in circles for her on a daily basis. She’s already got me wrapped around her little finger. She knows what buttons to push and exactly how to get what she wants with me. She fools the rest of the crowd and behind closed doors the little devil inside her oozes out of every pore.
Example: I took her to the toy store today to try and let her pick stuff out for her first birthday. You know what she did to everything, including anything Mickey Mouse Clubhouse *which she normally WORSHIPS?* Smacked at it and whined and cried. And I’m pretty sure I heard, “Giiiiiiirl, you think you can come at me with these cheap toys? You know I’m better than this. We’ll talk when you take me into Tiffany & Co. and lavish me in diamonds and platinum.”
You know what though? As much as the kid yells at me, abuses me, and successfully attempts to make me her bitch, I will tell you the reason this is happening right now:
She is a complete replica of me. And hissy fits, tantrums, and the dreaded SQUEAL aside…I wouldn’t trade this button for anything in the world.
Yes, that really is her name and… Feel absolutely free to check out her personal blog at www.myhusbandwillnotwearmyclothes.com or send her a private email full of love and even hate: email@example.com and you can also find her on Twitter @mandymooreblogr!
*If you are curious or in Mandy’s prior situation or feel inclined to read books on life with a crossdresser or transgender person, click here.
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