When it was bedtime for us, the parents, we walked down the hallway, only to hear quick, startled movements from our children’s bedroom. My husband cracked the door open and peered in. All was silent for a moment, then, slowly, two sets of eyes appeared, one from under a pillow, another from beneath a blanket. “Uh-oh! Danger!” said the five-year-old.
My husband chuckled. Bolstered by his reaction, the younger daughter brought her entire head out of hiding with a grin and said, “We always say, ‘Danger!’ when we hear you coming.”
As I was writing this post, my youngest daughter, two, came to me crying that her oldest sister had pushed her. At least, that’s all I could decipher from her tear-talk that seemed quite descriptive. It was probably an intriguing story, if I could have understood it. Instead I just curled her up on my lap, kissed her head, and said, “Uh-huh,” at what seemed the appropriate times as I kept typing.
Tears abated, she hopped down, grabbed my hand, and said, “Come on, Mommy,” as she led me to the offending sister’s room. We stopped at the doorway. Unsure of what I was supposed to do next, I stood there dumbly until my tenacious two-year-old gave my hand a little shake. “Talk,” she commanded. Then, looking toward her big sister, she muttered, “This is going to be fun.”
See if you can guess from this picture which one is the impish two-year-old!
P.S. Of course we didn’t actually have Burger King for dinner. Those crowns were just given to us, by, uh, a bum on the street! Wait. Maybe that’s not improving the situation.