Spinach is not a good thing

The other night, I decided to reward my daughter with a "special treat."  These are two words Eliza has come to love because that "special treat" refers to some form of chocolate.  I only have to mouth those two words to send my daughter into a frenzy of happiness that resembles a dog and filet mignon scraps.

I decided to end a particularly fun day with a special treat of hot chocolate.  Unfortunately, in my infinite stupidity, I told my daughter about her "hot chocolate" as I put the kettle on to boil.  My daughter has no patience and when I promise her a special treat, she expects said treat in hand the moment the words leave my lips.  I told her I had to cook the hot chocolate.  Suddenly a tantrum ensued.  You know, the kind with spasms of surging limbs coupled with howling, mutilated animal-like wails.  My need to comfort my deeply distressed child turned out to be a big mistake.  She looked me right in the eye and said "I want my hot chocolate!"

Then she hit the side of my face as hard as she could.

I'd love to say this is the first time she's hit me but that's not the case.  Eliza started whacking me on a regular basis last November.  I'm sad to say it's something I've grown accustomed to.  Half the time, I barely notice it.  At first I was stunned and deeply hurt.  Now I realize that she's two, she doesn't know how to control her anger so she hits the person that's closest to her.  Do I like it?  Not at all but I don't think it's that abnormal.  

Since I'd offered her a special treat, I didn't feel like acting as her punching bag.  So I put her in a crib for a time-out (the only form of "punishment" that seems to work for her) and she cried for two minutes in her room while I finished preparing the hot chocolate and set it on the counter to cool.

I went into her room, all smiles, ready to forgive, forget and enjoy our hot chocolate.  Eliza held out her hands and I noticed both her palms were smeared with what looked like greenish-brown playdo.

"I got poopy on my hands," she said.

I got a whiff just in time to see her scratch her nose and get it all over her face.  

"It stinks!" Eliza screamed, now suddenly very upset by this odious odor.  I groaned and quickly ran to get a washcloth.  

Earlier that day, I'd bragged to a friend about how well Eliza eats.  She eats a variety of great foods, squash, peppers, broccoli, beans.  "She even eats spinach!" I bragged to my friend.  "She wolfs it down."

I wasn't lying and standing over her crib that night after our ill-fated time-out, I had proof.