"Mommy..." I hear my daughter call downstairs for the third time since I put her to bed.
"Mommy, I'm going to let my baby sister A borrow my dragon."
"Um, okay. But don't go in her room. She's sleeping. Leave the dragon outside her door."
"But I want to put it in her crib." I hear A's door creak. A vision of my tiny baby getting bonked in the face with an oversized, not-particularly-soft stuffed animal flashes before my eyes.
"No, sweetie. She's too little for toys in her crib."
"Can I put it on the chair?"
"No. Leave it outside of her door."
"Okay, Mommy. Mommy? I'm going to let A keep my dragon. She can keep it."
I head upstairs to check on the dragon's location. It is sitting outside the nursery. "That was very sweet of you to give A your dragon." I tuck her in, again.
"Now go to sleep."
Seems like a lovely end to a post, right? Well, while I was blogging I got interrupted again. And again. And again.
"Mommy, I have to go potty." This was followed by my heading upstairs to wipe a truly toxic-smelling poop off her butt as it dangled precariously low in the toilet.
"Mommy, who put sunblock in my room? I'm going to put it away."
"Sockies. Sockies. I need sockies to go to bed."
Now she's crying. I'm giving up on this post and heading upstairs permanently.
