“Can I puh-lease call Gaga?” my almost-7-year-old daughter asked me this morning at 7:15, 10 minutes before her bus was due to arrive. If this were an isolated incident, I’d definitely agree to a quick call, feeling happy that my daughter and my mother (who also happens to be my best friend) have formed such a tight bond.
Instead, I was just annoyed, mostly because this was the fourth time in the last 24 hours my daughter had made the same request, and that wasn’t counting the handful of times she swiped my phone and called her grandmother without asking.
I get that my mom’s just trying to help, but it would be nice to feel like my rules are being respected and adhered to.
“Let’s give Grandma a break, honey,” I replied. “We can call her after school.” Then the waterworks started, and because it was 7:15 in the morning and I hadn’t had time to make coffee yet, I relented, figuring the phone call was the lesser of two evils and allowing it was the best way to stick to my survivalist parenting philosophy.
They spoke for a few minutes in hushed, loving tones (I could hear both sides of the conversation because my daughter thinks my phone only works on speaker mode) before I forced them off the phone so my daughter wouldn’t miss the bus. After I got her out the door, I called my mom back. “I’m sorry she’s being so obsessive about calling you,” I said. “Oh, I love it,” my mom replied. “Please let her call me as…