This morning as I was trying to usher the girls out the door, Babs plopped down in the middle of the living room and decided to change her shoes. Not only were we running late, but the shoes she wanted to wear were not appropriate for her mud-puddle playground. So I told her no, do not change your shoes, we need to get going right now.

“Mo-oooom!” she wailed. “You are just so horrid!”

And, okay. Is it just me? Or is that kind of… awesome? She’s seven.

As much as I wanted to get her out the door, as much as I disapprove of being disrespectful to your family members, I just couldn’t help myself. I stopped what I was doing, turned to look at her and said, “Babs, that kind of hurt my feelings. But I have to say, I am impressed with your choice of words. That was a very grown-up insult.”

I won’t be surprised when a thesaurus winds up on her Christmas list next year. I think I may have just taught her that the more articulate the affront, the less likely she is to get in trouble. I can just picture it now: the girls are bickering because Babs refuses to share something with Zibbit. I intervene, taking away whatever object has caused the contention. Babs crumples to the floor, one hand dramatically thrown up over her eyes, and whimpers, “Oh, Mother! Ye who carried me those nine lengthy months in the cradle of thy womb! Dost thou not love me? Why, then, this wretched affliction? Why this bitter inequity?”

And I will have no choice. She’ll not only get the toy back, but I’ll probably also praise her for manipulating me so eloquently. This is going to be a problem.