My daughter is six years old. She has a little brother. He's three. They don't always see eye to eye. A. is very territorial and C. likes to "get in her kitchen". C. is NEVER allowed in her room. She has many six year old treasures that are too precious for a little brother to touch. A. doesn't like her brother too much. She never asked for a sibling and would have been just fine to be an only child.
As I was retiring for the evening, I went to check on my little angels as I do every night. C. pooped and the smell had wafted into the hallway. Still he slept. I changed his diaper. (NO, HE'S NOT POTTY TRAINED YET!!!!) I walked across the hall to kiss A. on her head and walked into a toy explosion. Every toy (which is a lot of toys) was thrown across the room. Books strewn across the bed, animals hanging from the shelves, dolls partially undressed. And then I saw it. The dollhouse that had been meticulously furnished and set was hit by a 3foot tornado in T-Rex pajamas. WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED? A. sleeps through NOTHING. This disaster was at least a 15 minute task. Was she dead? Did he finally kill her? No. She was breathing. Maybe she had done this? It was then I spotted all the evidence I needed to make an accusation, two blue blankets and an empty sippy cup sitting right next to her head.
Because I do value my son's life and would like to sleep past 6:00am, I cleaned the mess. If she woke to find her life in shambles and KNEW that it was her nemesis' doing, she would KILL.
See, I do love my kids.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment