As I was putting her to bed, I told Z the story of the Boy Who Cried Wolf. I've been getting a little irritated by her constant whining about minor irritations, so I was hoping that this tale might convince her to save her complaints for the big stuff."But the little boy didn't die."
"Yes he did. The wolf ate up the sheep and the boy because nobody came to rescue them."
"We-ell, he didn't die. He was in the wolf's tummy but he wasn't dead. The wolf went potty and the boy went in the potty and he wasn't dead! And his clothes fell off and his underpants fell off in the potty and...[whispered] everyone could see his privates... Tell that part, okay Mommy?"
"Wolves don't go potty, Z. They poop in the woods."
"Well, tell my ending anyway."
