EVERY Dog Needs a Bone

The kids are down for their naps right now. Lane went fast asleep around 12:15, and Dylan read to herself until about thirty minutes ago. Now I can hear her snoring.

About an hour ago: I had been half listening to her read to herself, as I worked on an assignment. She was "reading" from memory, from last night's reading session. All of sudden she burst into tears. I knew that cry. It's the one I experience quite often as a slightly emotional mother. In the midst of reading something, I'll simply burst into a few tears, mostly from joy, but sometimes from a breeze of sadness, a shade of guilt, or burst of laughter. Tears are a funny thing, but that's another blog.

I distinctly heard her burst into tears mid-sentence, but she continued reading. She was cry-reading. So I tiptoed into her room to see what was going on. She looked up at me with a crocodile tear zigzagging down her cheek, as I asked what was wrong.

"It's saaad," she sniffled.

"What is baby, your book?"

"Yeah, it's saaad momma."

My heart pulsated with a joyful bless-her-heart, as I was on the verge of cry-smiling.

One of the books we read last night was called, "Every Dog Needs a Bone." The storyline entails a dog whose "mistress" (I wish they would call her mommy or something else) has left him at home and the dog is sad. The illustration shows the dog looking out the window and crying as his owner drives down the driveway. That is kind of sad....

BUT, the owner returns shortly and she's been to the store, and low and behold, she brought her sweet dog a big bone! So, all is well in the world.

So I sweetly remind my little animal lover that in the end he DOES get a bone, and that she should fnish the book and then get some rest.

What a kind heart. It nearly burst mine, and I had to share.

Silence Isn't Always Sweet

As much as I really enjoy my Tuesdays and Thursdays with my children, I must be honest. I also really enjoy naptime. It's wonderful. The quiet. The stillness. The silence. It's only a few hours, but it's silent sweetness....

Until you discover that the silence didn't mean they were sleeping. My 3 1/2 year old, doesn't much take a nap at home anymore. If she does, it takes forever for her to fall asleep, and then she's out all afternoon. This usually doesn't happen though. I typically let her watch a vegetale and rest and then put her in bed to lie there and...well just lie there until my 1 1/2 year old wakes up.

Every now and then, my 3 decides to be creative. Sidenote: She has genes that came from neither one of her parents. She likes pink. A LOT. She loves to have her toes and nails painted. Loves to dress up. Likes to pretend to put make up on, etc, etc.

Well, every now and then, my 3 goes into sneaky, stealth mode. I never hear a peep. Granted I should check on her sneaky little butt, but I don't. I'm enjoying my sweet silence!

A few weeks ago, I kept thinking that she had been really good about staying in her bed. Thought it was a little wierd, but shrugged it off. I go in there to find my sweet, darling, little girl in her bed with my make up bag! She had given herself a makeover. But the thing is, it was all in the right place! She had no mirror to look in. Homegirl had just sat there and compact by tube by pencil, she had done her face. Of course the mascara was streaked across her eyelid and not on the lashes. And the blush looked clownish. And she had enough lip gloss on to paint a postcard. But I was slightly impressed with her skills, and thus couldn't get irrately mad. I was...sort of proud.

Now today. I'm sitting in here at the computer, typing away on my other blog (wierdo) about Christmas, and I here my 1 crying. It had been over two hours, so I called it quits on my sweet silence, and went to get my little man. As I opened the hallway door, I jumped! There was a mound of something on the floor next to his door. As I flipped the light on, I realized it was my angelic 3. Piled up on the floor, in the fetal position.

me: What are you doing?
her: Nuffin'
me: No really. What are you doing?
her: Nuffin' momma.
me: WHY ARE YOU ON THE FLOOR? What have you done?
her: Umm.... (she begins to stand up, and the stench of nail polish slaps me in the face, before I can see her artwork) Ummmm...I..umm..I paint my toes. See? (smiling)

Homegirl did not paint her toes. She painted her feet. Hands too.

Now I'm completely nervous and literally afraid seeing the crime scene. I actually would rather not, by the looks of her. But I know I have to. There still might be wet paint.

me: Where did you do this?
her: Huh?
me: Where did you paint yourself? Where were you?
her: Uuhhh...in da bed.
me: In your bed!
I look in her room, once-over her bed. I see nothing.
me: No really. Where were you? Tell me.
her: In da bed. In your bed.
me: MY BED?????

I slowly walk into our room. I'm looking on my bed and I really don't see much. There's a few drops on two of the pillows. Some crusty dried polish on the bed from where she opened the bottle, but that's it. Nothing in the bathroom. Nothing on the carpet. Nothing hardly anywhere.

I'm in shock. Amazed. And then I'm thinking....So, do I get mad? Because, really, she did a good job. In fact, she did a great job for a 3! She just painted her entire foot, that's all.

So I turned to my 3, got in her face, and very calmly, but scarily, said, "Don't you ever, ever, do that without me. Never even get this bag out, without me. Only paint with mommy. Do you hear me?"

Yes m'am.

Left me scratching my head a bit. It was bad, but she did good. So she's getting good at being bad? Or she's just really got a knack for beauty shop stuff? Hmmm...

I suppose I'll insert breaks to ensure my silence ends sweetly next time.

I love it!