It's not ripe!

Those are the words that I uttered {or maybe slightly yelled} to my daughter last night as we watered the garden.

I tried not to get upset as I told her for the twelve billionth time that the tomatoes weren't ripe and she couldn't pick them.

When she informed me that she was going to pick a pepper {ha, ha} and I told her no because they weren't ripe, I tried really hard not to get upset.

Then, she did, pick the pepper that is.

I didn't yell, I just pulled weeds.

Then, when she decided to pick up the hose and water everything {including the dirt and the new blossoms} I decided to pick my battle.

I don't often do that, pick my battle, and for that I sometimes feel like an inadequate mother. I tell myself it's for the best, because why fight over something that doesn't really matter?

So, I picked my battle, picked her up and moved her off the garden. She decided that time would be a good time to roll on her back and play dead.

And I let her.

I pulled weeds.

As she screamed and cried about how she couldn't get up, I pulled weeds. Trying to come up with some way to handle this tantrum.

As she cried {fake, for my benefit}, I remembered the tarantula hawk we had seen earlier dragging the poor spider it had caught, back to it's lair.

And as I pulled weeds, I subtly reminded her and said,

"I really hope there's not anymore spiders in the grass."

Up she hopped and it was all over.

Not in my mind though. I wondered how on earth I was going to survive this five year old phase. I'm sure it's the same as how I survived the 2, 3, and 4 year old phases.

But as I watched my mom with her, the two of them pulling weeds together, my mom praising her every step of the way, I figured it out.

There it was, so easy.

Love her, respect her, praise her, and still...pick your battles.