My children think I am evil. They must. They both run from me when they are in trouble. They hide. Omelette, in the closet or behind a chair, and Early Bird, behind Roostler’s legs. In fact, they both seek out Daddy to save them from my deadly glares. Omelette calls her daddy to tell him of the inhumane way in which I treat her, and Early Bird screams, “Daddy, help me” when her evil mother forces her to go to bed. (More on that in a later post.)
I am not a fan of the way my daughters view me. But, there is always some humor to be had. This morning, after a restless night during which Early Bird took two hours to settle down before going to sleep only to wake up a few hours later to start the whole process again, I needed a good laugh. Omelette provided it.
Here’s the scene:
We’re on our way to school when I notice that my hands are unusually dry. I say as much out loud.
“My hands are smooth,” comes the reply from the backseat.
“Well, that’s the advantage of being young. Your skin is young and smooth. Mine is getting old and dry.”
“So, you’re ready to shed it?” my daughter asks.
I think I may have let her watch too much Harry Potter.