Monday, P had to go to work with me because she had an appointment at 10am, and I'll be John Brown (don't ask) if I take her to the World's Busiest Airbase, go to work on my Dead Base, then go get her again, then go downtown to the appointment all with in 2 hours.
When she goes to work with me, she packs her bags like she's going to be confined. She packs the DVD player and movies, crayons, paper, coloring books, workbooks (to do her 'homework'), scissors, a blanket and music. After about 45 minutes, she was quite bored, so I asked her to please put about 15 files in the hanging file holders in the drawer:
Me: Do you want to help me put these away?
Me: Put them in like this. *showing her which way the labels should face*
**after putting away 5 folders:
P: I'm tired now and the folders are making me sweaty. I need to stop now.
Me: Can you please just put the others away so they won't be on the floor?
P: I'll put the others in the drawer if you give me some dollars.
Me: Nevermind, I'll just finish it myself.
P: Ok, ok, I'll do it, but you just have to give me some circle money.
**after she put away 3 more:
P: I'm soooo hungry now!
I really hope this is not a sample of what she will be like when she becomes a tax paying citizen. If so, I might have to work for Uncle LeRoy until I have one foot in the grave.
P often asks me if she can comb or brush my hair. Usually I tell her no. Why do I tell her no, you ask??? Because the last two times that I let her play beauty shop with my hair, the comb tangled in my hair and I had to cut about 6 inches of my hair off to get it out.
Fast forward to Sunday evening:
P: Mommy, can I comb your hair?
Me: Yes, but remember not to get the comb tangled in it.
P: It won't get tangled in you hair, because it's a tiny comb. *showing me a comb about the size of her hand*
Me: Ok, stand on the couch behind me.
*after combing for about 4 minutes:
P: I was combing Chico's hair in my room, but he kept running away.
Me: Um...what comb were you using on him?
P: This tiny one. *showing me the comb she was combing my hair with*
Me: That is gross! That comb is dirty. You can't use the same comb on Crazy Dog that you use on my hair.
P: It's not dirty anymore, I took all of his hair off of it before I started combing your hair.
If I get a serious case of mange, it's because P and the Crazy Dog have been plottin' on me! For this reason, P WILL be an only child...I can't have 2 of them plottin' on me!