This is MY jelly and I AM taking it home! AND THIS ONE TOO!

A very hot day. My daughter, sitting on a bench in town for a quick soothe-the-crying-baby break, gets lucky: Her "best friend" Zack zooms by with his mum, on their way to buying a paddling pool, and we are invited back to their house for a splash. Hurray, says Tara, I WANT TO GO TO ZACK'S HOUSE! (This is something she says with regularity, though only about once every week or fortnight in combination with that enthusiastic hurray.) Great, I say, let's buy some treats; and a littel later we are at Zacks, Tara in borrowed swimming trunks, and the two of them eating crispies (one bag each), and a jelly (one each, of a four-pack). Tara dips two toes in the pool after her lengthy snack: She does not care for (cold or otherwise) water as much as she cares for treats. Especially jelly. (Edit: Actually, especially anything.)
Fun is had by all, for various reasons, and it is home time. One innocently unsuspecting polite mother - not me! - says: Do you want to take the last two jellies home?
Na, don't worry, I say. (We have more at home. Plenty more.) YES, my daughter says by the door, slipping into her shoes one-handed because she is clutching a sweet she was secretly given by Zack in the other. She has very good ears, this daughter of mine.
In the kitchen, Zack begins to cry bitterly. His mother starts trying to talk him out of wanting the fourth jelly.
By the door, my daughter will not be talked into relinquishing her jellies, third and fourth. I suggest sharing, and now she begins to cry bitterly too. All right, all right, I say, choosing fairness and maternal betrayal over reason and educational perseverance: I slip one jelly out of the pushchair and behind the door as we go down the stairs. Oops, I plan on saying at home when we find one jelly missing, we must have lost that on the way.
My darling daughter must have heard the jelly wobble in its plastic bowl. There are three steps to descend: On the second she asks, And we have the jellies? BOTH?! But of course, I say, OF COURSE! and change the subject, quickly.
I think my evil plot might work as we make it half way home on peaceful conversation. But then, the other end of the peaceful conversation changes the subject back: Do we really have both jellies still? Emphasis on really and both.
It is here and now that I make the mistake of changing up on myself, 4 and a half a street from home: Well... I don't want to lie to you... I left one jelly with Zack. Are you very cross with me?
Well, yes, replies my daughter, composed. I am very cross with you if you give my jelly away. It is my jelly and I want to take it home, and if you give it to Zack that is not fair, and I am going to cry. Speaks with great composure, takes a deep breath and HOWLS. Extra. Loud. In between sobs she resumes arguing her case along similar lines as above and cries some more. Again, extra loud. And it is not just me feeling extra sensitive because of all the people that we walk past - people that I wish to exchange understanding looks with and casually wish to say to, Tired time of day married with not enough jelly to go round, you know... Ahem. But nobody seems to care as much as Tara. Tara goes WAAAAA!
I say, Do you want to go back to Zack's house and get the jelly back...
YEEEES
...and give him back the sweety he gave you?
NOOOO WAAAAA!
Does it seem fair to you that he gives you a sweety and you don't want to share your jellies?
YEEES!
But we have lots more jellies at home, you know?
I don't CAAAAAREEE! I want THIS ONEEEE!
We get home, and bless the 'tired time of day', daddy is home. By now Tara wants reassurance just as much as her jelly and she is howling: Mummy *sob sob* cuuuuddles *howl sob* eeeextra long cuuuuddle! I'm on a tired time of day homerun though, have made a dash for the kitchen, am trying to make her dinner (NO jelly for pudding!), and am cruelly refusing extra long cuddles.
Up she trots the stairs for daddy cuddles. Sad to report: only second-best.
From down in the kitchen, I hear the incident told over.
And again.
And again, under tears.
And voila, there's a new element to her tearful account! It goes: I want to go and live in a different house with a different mummy! I want a new mummy who doesn't give my jellies away! I want to live with Tante Claudia! SHE would NOT have given away my jelly! It's not faaaiiiir!
I've been disowned! Over a jelly! Downstairs, I am in tears. Of laughter.
Upstairs, Jose is, too. Tears of laughter. And Tara. Tears of anger and despair. What is she going to do without her mummy?
Daddy does a fair bit of soothing, cuddling and talking, and Tara is willing to move back in. Then there is a little silence in which, I learn later, she sits and eats Zack's sweeties.
My daughter, recovered.
She comes down, eats her dinner, and generously offers me a share of everything she eats, offers Leo a share of everything she eats.
She only has two more concerns, presented calmly.
1. Mummy, I didn't want Zack to have the jelly because he is going to get FAT. He's omly allowed one treat and he already had the crispies... (Ahem. In the first world, little boys do not come any skinnier than Zack. But I won't mention.)
2. Tante Claudia will miss me. (I bet she does.)

That's my girl: Brought up to argue her case.

Happier Days (when Tante Claudia was still here. SHE would NOT have given away Tara's 8th jelly.)

"Self Portrait on a Happier Day" (so named by Mummy; 3 years, 9 months)

Meanwhile, the little man has cut his first tooth and is happily shredding cooked carrots, bananas, toast and fluffy dogs or paper of any kind with it. Also, as of this week, he can sit for considerable amounts of time without falling onto his nose and crying hard, although that too does happen. Does it gets the news coverage it deserves? I does not. Life really really is not fair.

Dog bites Little Man. Little Man bites back.