Last night, I tweeted:


I love that the mere act of counting to 3 can make my children quake with fear.

It’s true.

As @thinkmama so aptly put it, it really is a superpower.  And one of the better ones we received when we became moms. Conversely, the superpower to sweep the floor with my boobs is one I could live without.

I have no idea who the first parent was that realized you could get your children to do anything simply by threatening to count to three, but he or she deserves a medal, emblazoned with metaphorical images of clean plates, tidied rooms, and prompt bedtimes. And to think, I used to want to be invisible. Pffft.

I have a confession however. This weekend I misused the superpower. (Forgive me, oh sisters in parenting.) I wanted to give Sage just a little more time to meander into bed and I told her…I’d count to ten.

I know.

I know!

By the time I hit six, I knew she wasn’t going anywhere. By eight I was hiding my panic Then the unthinkable happened. I hit ten.

I had to think fast…what to do? Ten was totally unfamiliar territory. I scanned the room and decided I would confiscate a toy: Her very favorite. Diego, the cross-dressing rag doll. I grabbed him and his floppy tutu and tossed them up on the highest bookshelf. Ugliness ensued.

But I learned my lesson.

So did Sage.

Because last night, I had the opportunity to count to three again.

One..two…

She was shrieking by two-and-a-half. But doing it from bed.

I blow my nails, swipe them along my superhero tool belt, and start dreaming of a superpower that will make my children eat things that are not beige or ketchup.