First of all, in regard to yesterday's post: not a hoax, people. Those pictures are not of me. I've been receiving a lot of skepticism, but I promise. Not me.
Okay, now on with today's business. Tonight I was hanging out with my favorite three year old, Lucy. Lucy wanted to give baby Sam a gift, in the form of a glittery, 3-D chicken sticker. I.e., an awesome sticker. She placed the sticker on the bottom of Sam's foot, adhering it to his footy pajamas. I told her to be careful, because the baby could put the sticker in his mouth
(because I am a paranoid freak. It's not that I view others as incompetent parents, it is 99% of the time that I am a paranoid freak. Please always remember this when I point out to you that the jagged edge of your bit-into ice cream cone is centimeters away from gouging the inside of your mouth. Please remember it is me, not you, before you lash out in anger at my comments that seemingly insult and discredit your abilities in adulthood).
Lucy obediently peeled the sticker from Sam's foot and regifted it to me.
Perhaps this was all an action on my part because of my subconscious desire to be the owner of the awesome, 3-D, glittery chicken sticker. I wouldn't throw out this theory.
Lucy placed the sticker on my cardigan a couple of times, and after it kept falling off I suggested she stick it on my face--perhaps it would "stay stuck" better. Again, dutifully, following Aunt Bailey's directions, Mr. Chicken migrated to my cheek.
Lucy stepped back to admire her handiwork and, hands on hips, declared, "Stickers are for grown ups."
Not "Stickers are for grown ups too," just "for grown ups." Period. You speak the truth, Baby Girl. You speak the truth. Keep it up. (But I'll happily share my stickers with you.)
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