Zero to Tragic, Weepy Mess in 0.5 Seconds

Honestly, she doesn't even let you get out the words "Yes, you may have a magical talking pony" before she hits the ground.

And that's the thing.

Yes, Sophie, yes. We're saying yes. Half the time—more than half the time—the answer is yes. And still you are an unconsolable, writhing mass of misery on the floor. Sure sometimes there is a brief pause implied when you are asking the physically impossible or criminally negligent (I cannot, with the best will in the world, turn around to tie your shoes in the car seat while we're going 65 miles an hour down the highway and I am driving). But in the main, the immediate and unambiguous message is going to be "yes" and—but—I— I— I can't even get the word out before you've collapsed.

And then sometimes, sometimes your "yes" turns into a "no" because certain things are just not done. You cannot hit us in frustration; you cannot fling things at the wall in pique; you cannot pitch forward headfirst at the coffee table because you judge that the action best suited to properly externalize your rage and frustration. I am honor-bound to catch you, you know. And so what was once going to be an easy "yes" has turned into three minutes of time-out in a chair that is not actually electrified, though you wouldn't know it from your writhing.