Ryan and I were just cozying up on the pull-out bed downstairs around midnight (she had had multiple nightmares, Daddy wanted to actually sleep, and Mommy's legs stick out 2 feet off Ry's bed). As we are snuggling, she turns to me and whispers, "I'm sorry, Mommy."
"Sorry for what, baby?"
"For putting glue on the car."
At this point I'm thinking this is a rollover from her nightmare.
"What do you mean? When did you put glue on the car?"
"Yesterday. I was just trying to fix Cinderella."
Fix Cinderella? What's wrong with her? And what did putting glue on the car have to do with anything? Too many questions, not enough answers, and certainly not enough sleep.
*Nice deep cleansing breath*
"Okay, well why don't we start by determining real/pretend. Are you making this up or did you really do that?" With this kid, you never know.
"Oh, I did it!"
"Okay. Where did you get glue?"
"From the table in the garage where we made our Halloween Monsters." Oh, is that still there?
"Uh-huh. And where on the car did you put the glue?"
"On the door."
"You put the glue inside the door?"
"No. On the outside of the door. Like, where it's black."
"Right. Like on the PAINT?"
"Ryan. Elizabeth. York. I do not want to know why. But I want you to know this: If your Dad finds out, you will be in a world of trouble."
"But I just wanted to see what would happen --"
"Stop. You are gonna be so dead."
(giggling) "Well I'm not gonna tell him. Are you?"
(gasp) "I knew you loved me, Mom!"
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