Last night Z threw a fit when, after reading her a story of her choosing (a crappy self-published book about a waltzing grandma that my very own grandmother no doubt purchased from directly the author at her retirement home), I let Daddy take over. I had to call T-Mobile about my Blackberry Curve breaking. Again.
She begged for a made-up story--her favorite part of our nighttime ritual--and Josh promised her he'd make one up. She put her hands over her ears. Because, you know, how can Josh possibly replicate the awesomeness of last night's twisted retelling of Alice in Wonderland?
Screaming commenced. Screaming I could hear all the way down two flights of stairs. Then I heard footsteps. Heavy, stompy man-sounding footsteps coming down the stairs.
"She flipped me off. And I'm pretty sure she knew what she was doing."
I still remember learning about the middle finger. In fact, I'll never forget my first day of kindergarten. My dad asked me what I'd learned on my first day of school, and I carefully folded down all my fingers save one. Daddy was not amused.
