me: it’s time for bed. turn off the tv in the playroom and go get ready.
them: [all kinds of wailing and whining, then whispering and silence]
them: mama, look at us. [each slowly crawls out of playroom looking sad with their heads down ] slow, mournful song plays in the background.
me: [stifling laughter]
hadn’t even gotten breakfast half cooked when i hear wailing from 8 yo. i rush in, and she is screaming that she hurt her knee and toes on the rock em’ sock ’em robot game. she is smushed into a tiny space in her crowded-with-junk closet between a large box, her hanging clothes holder, and a small rocking chair. i pull her out and put her on the bed and ask her what she was doing in there. she says she needed privacy to get dressed so she was dressing in her closet. i ask why she couldn’t just close the door to her room. she stares at me blankly. *sigh*