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 | true story |
Thing #8,957 I never expected to hear any of my children say:
Child number three to child number four: “I’m sorry I ate your flower.”
(Yes, real flower. Literal flower. Weed-flower picked by child four from the backyard. Bitten right out of her hand by child three to—I think—I hope—demonstrate the edibility of said flower. And then it wasn’t really a flower anymore.)
“Eh, is okay,” said child four, and tossed the remaining stem over her shoulder.
And that pretty much sums up my weekend. How about you?
My daughter, age 4, had a revelation this weekend that was expressed exactly this way: “Oh my god! My pizza is going to turn into poop!” Which, I realize now, would have been even funnier if “pizza” were replaced with “flower.”
But only if you eat it first. Otherwise it just sits in the fridge and slowly grows blue-green mold until finally it’s completely unrecognizable but for the telltale box it’s in. *cough* Not that I’d know anything about that. *cough*
Um, the pizza, that is. Not the flower. I don’t have flowers in boxes in my fridge. At least not that I know of.