~Sophie. She likes to sleep in my bed at night. SG said to her (but not at all unkindly) SophODemon, are you going to still be sleeping in your mom’s bed when you are eighteen?
She did not miss a beat. She rolled her eyes, exhaled, turned her face toward her right shoulder, Uh, NOOOH. I’ll be sleeping with my boi-friend. Sigh.
And SG looked at me and I looked at him and we could not help but laugh though I was also kinda praying a little, because, well, because.
~Over the weekend I forced the girls to pick up the toys in their bedroom, heartless bitch that I am. You know how it is; they act all stunned, look at you, openmouthed and outraged. Well, they say, will you at least HELP US? And I say, Uh, no. I have stuff to do and it’s your mess and your room. And YOU WILL CLEAN IT. ALONE.
Later, after they actually did a fantastic job of picking up (I only had to drag stuff out from under the bed and out of the closet twice before they stopped with the stuffing/cleaning) followed by vacuuming, I heard that Willow turned to Sophie as they were picking up the 47 stuffed dogs and 53 Playmobile babies and 6 million candy wrappers and said this:
Mom is treating us like SHIT. Like a BIG BAG OF SHIT.
She’s six. First grade. I should be absolutely utterly and completely horrified. Instead? SG and I spent a few days getting her to say it again, and then reminding her that she can’t say that at school or around her friends’ parents, unless it’s a friend she doesn’t really want to hang out with anymore.
The baby of the family has it made, man. We eldest children aren’t allowed to get away with anything, but the babies get to be evil and parents find it entertaining.
~While I’m at it, I’ll retell this story. When Lex was about four and Nate was two and Sophie was newborn, we were all at the barber shop, getting Lex’s hair cut. He was sitting in the barber’s chair, on a booster, all cute and chatty with his little brown sandals poking out from under the cape. He and the barber started talking about smoking.
Lex: My dad smokes.
Bob the Barber: Oh. Well. he looked at me But your MOM, she doesn’t smoke.
Lex: Noooooooo, my mom doesn’t smoke.