Try as I may, today had Monday written all over it: a tube of silver glitter glue squeezed out on the upholstered dining room chair, a big fat Wal Mart meltdown, my favorite mug broken and exploding grape juice concentrate. Nothing colossal, just lots of little moments that tried my patience. By the time I loaded the girls in the car at 7:30 to run an errand, I was out of sweetness.
As I backed out of the driveway, Olivia screamed. I lectured. No, a bug on your arm is NOT a scream-worthy emergency. Especially while I'm driving. That discussion prompted the following:
Olivia: "When I'm grown up, my husband and I are going to live by OUR rules."
Me: "What rules are those?"
Olivia: "Well, we will stack our books differently."
Obviously. The book stacking guidelines in her current home ARE very limiting.
"And we will eat messy food without a bib. And we will dig our hands into it and smear it everywhere."
I feel the need to interject here. The five year old does not actually wear a bib. Unless she and her sister insist on wearing "fairy princess dancing dresses" in purest white to the dinner table that includes ketchup. Then, yes, I wrap a towel around her neck.
"And we will live in a MESSY house. And our garden will be out of control and we will plant a WATERMELON in our garden."
She is clearly irritated that my debut 4x8 foot teeny garden does not include a mass of vines and twenty-pound orbs.
Me: "So are these the things that are wrong with your life now?"
Just curious, man.
I guess that's not too bad. Those don't seem like the kinds of things that will make her resent me terribly. But then, I have 13 more years.