Then this morning, Pea tells Coco to give her a toy or she will not be allowed to go to school. Ever. Not when she’s three. Or four. Or five. And Coco says “no.” Apparently, she does not want to go to school. Or she’s calling Pea’s bluff. And so Pea responds with, “give me the toy now or I’m going to kick your ass.” And I chime in with an, “excuse me? What did you just say?” And she retorts quickly with an, “I’m going to kick your ass too, mommy.” And I laugh. Out loud. Why? It was funny. She’s four. And I’m a hypocrite. Right? Lost that opportunity to teach her about bad words and violence not being the answer and all. For the quick laugh. And after all my preachy self-righteousness about the candy, now I’m just another hypocrite? I guess so.

Parenting is exhausting. I get it. Tired of taking every single opportunity to teach kids about the world around them. Don’t be afraid to stand out from the crowd and be different. Share – there’s enough for everyone. Don’t use bad words. Violence is never the answer. And on and on. I wonder how many opportunities pass me by in a day that I don’t jump on? Too many to count, I’m sure. Oh, well. I guess we’re doing pretty well here, regardless of those missed lessons. My girls are sweet and polite for the most part. Pea picks her nose too much, but most kids do. And she’s pretty tough on her little sister, but when I think back to the torture I inflicted on my younger brother? Pea is a saint in comparison. Kids will be kids, right? Little Coco? As tiny as she is? She was not bothered in the least by the whole candy incident. She got her fill. I don’t think I have anything to worry about.

Coco has always, always been the most mellow kid I’ve encountered. Seriously easy-going. Always happy, never without a smile on her precious little face. It’s been nothing but an easy ride with that kid.

Until now. Well, technically, until about three or so months ago.

It hit us like a very large bag of bricks in the face. The screaming. At the top of her lungs. At first? It was in reaction to something clearly annoying that her older sister had done to her: taken a toy away from her, pushed her off the sofa, gotten the larger half of the cookie. Always some perceived slight on her behalf.

And then… it morphed. Into something larger than life. Something that we cannot handle. Something that is going to send me over the edge. Literally to the brink. Of insanity.

She screams all the time. When she’s hurt. When she’s not hurt. When her sister won’t share. When her sister does share. When she wants juice and I’m not moving fast enough. When she wants a bath now now now and we’re on the highway half-way between SLC and our home. When she needs a snack. Has a yucky. Can’t see the TV. I could go on and on, but you’re getting the point, right?

It is, how shall I say, annoying.

And like any fully grown and mature woman, how have I taken to dealing with it? I scream back. That’s right. Coco screams at me and I return the favor. So as my husband stands there, a dumbfounded look on his face as he ping-pongs back and forth watching the exchange, he can’t help but wonder aloud how I can possibly assume that screaming at my screaming child not to scream is going to get her to stop screaming?

I don’t know? Nothing else is working. And I am human and can only take so much? And do you have any better ideas? Because I do not.

Help! Help!

It feels as if I am banging my head against a wall. All day long. And I can’t stop. And no one else can make it stop. And you’d think it’d be as easy as saying, “hey, quit banging your head against that wall,” right? Something like, “hey, quit screaming, use those words of yours that you are so fluent with,” but that ship sailed long ago.

And I am so sick and tired of reading parenting books. And parenting magazines. And parenting websites. More than four years in, I feel like I should have this down.

And so, while you’re at it, leaving me comments about how to get my two-and-a-half-year old to quit screaming all the time, do me a favor and also let me know how to make my four-year old more agreeable when it’s time to leave a play-date. Or playgroup. Or the park. The bathtub. Pretty much any place that is more fun that the sound of my voice simply saying, “hey, it’s time to go kiddo.”

How could such a sweet little thing have so much sass inside of her? At so young an age? My husband says she gets it from me. So does my mother.

Ouch…

And I love it.

And on occasion when I had an appointment that I remembered about, there was this great little drop-in childcare place in close proximity to us. I’d swing by, run the girls in and head to wherever it was I needed to be. But about two months ago, they suddenly closed down. Forever. Something about the economy coupled with last spring’s Swine Flu epidemic. And then we lost our last babysitter to grad school. In Wisconsin. And we knew that with my husband’s travel schedule and my weakening nerves we had to do something.

And so we did.

We brought in Nici. From Austria. She’s our au pair. And before you go getting all “oh, isn’t she fancy with her nanny,” let me say this:

Nici is not a nanny.

She is an au pair. An 18-year old girl from Austria who wants to experience a year of life in the U.S. and so in return offers our family childcare assistance during times when we need it. Which for me, really amounts to an extra set of hands to replace the set that I lose when my husband gets on that plane out of town. But she’s so much more than an au pair already, she’s a family member. She’s a big sister to the girls. She joins us at all of the events that we attend, she knows all the kids (and parents) at Pea’s school. She eats with us, she relaxes with us. It’s been amazing. We are so grateful that she is here. Honestly, I could not do this without her. I know there are those of you who do, those of you who have no choice, but we do have a choice and this is the one we’ve made. For our family. And it’s working. And we are thrilled to pieces.

And so, consider yourself up-to-date. And now, moving on…

Pea is a tyrant these days. Constantly yanking her little sister, hitting her, stealing things from her and just generally terrorizing the entire household. I am at a complete loss! I think this is normal for her age? And for sisters so close to one another in ages? I found these little responsibility charts at the local toy store by Melissa & Doug, and thought perhaps they’d help us gain a little control. Kind of manipulate the situation a bit. I think they might be working. It’s been one week and she’s eager to put her ‘way to go!’ and ‘awesome job!’ magnets next to her completed responsibilities at the end of the day. It’s become an integral part of our nighttime ritual.

A big one: ‘keep hands to yourself.’

With a 4 and a 2-year old, I feel like my whole life is one big “no.” And lately, Pea’s whole life is another big “no,” passed along to her little sister, her puppy, her whomever… And I get so irritated with her. Tell her that saying no? It’s mommy’s job. Not Pea’s job. My job.

To say no? Just a broad, all-encompassing no? What a job to have.

I don’t sound like a lot of fun, do I?

So now, I, too, will be breaking out a pen and writing “just say yes” on my hand.

Finding this post? Was serendipity, at it’s best…

Every Monday, we’d get her into her tights and leotard, and head over there. She’d have her little pink dancing bears ballet backpack on, with her tap and ballet shoes inside. For a while, it went pretty well. And then, something happened. I don’t know what, but it has made my life hell. I cannot stand taking her to class. She won’t get dressed, she doesn’t feel well. The list of excuses is endless, and if my husband isn’t here to ‘handle’ it, the whole day is ruined by what was supposed to be a joyful hobby for her. The screaming, the crying. And that’s me! So many times, I have wanted to throw in the towel. I’ve told my husband, “to hell with it. If she doesn’t want to go, I’m not going to force her.” And his response (and many others, too, whom I’ve talked to about this situation) has always been, “she needs to finish what she started.”

And welcome to my childhood. Finish what she started. Might as well be finish what I started. Because with my ADHD, nothing was ever finished. But boy, was I good at the starts.

And so, for Pea’s sake, apparently, I continued to battle her, every Monday afternoon. Stuffed her in her outfit, threw her in the car, cursing the universe to hell as I made the five-minute drive to the studio.

But last Monday, I had an epiphany. Her dance studio? It stinks. And I mean that. It just stinks like a skunk on the side of the road. And you know what else? They are allowed to stink. Because they are the only joint in town. There’s no competition! No second studio to keep them on their toes. (Get it? Ballet? Toes?)

Pea’s teacher has missed so many classes, I don’t actually know who she is. And the classes she does make it to? She is always late. And the girls don’t get to make it up on the back end of the class, since there’s another class that is shuffled in exactly when their class ends. And I don’t know who is in charge, there’s never anyone at the front desk who knows anything about anything. And they never answer the phone. Never, ever. Ever.

So, back to last Monday and my epiphany… My little Pea is truly a chip off the old block. And I’m the block. She thrives on routine, schedule, knowing what’s coming next. Everything has it’s place, and if it doesn’t, she’ll find it one. I am just the same way. So, to walk into this building that is literally teeming with eager little preschoolers in their dance outfits climbing the walls, awaiting a late instructor, or one who’s never even there, the confusion of a new teacher filling in for the AWOL teacher, it’s just too much for my sweet little girl to bear. And so, when we got her into her costume for her ‘rehearsal’ last Monday, I just knew that it wasn’t going to end well. Scheduled right before the rehearsal were to be the pictures: individual shots and group shots. But no one from the studio was there to help us, it was just the poor girl from the photo studio, and she had no clue. “Where is your teacher, Pea? Oh, wait! That’s her! She’s actually here! Hi! What are we doing? Where should we be? Excuse me? This is Pea. She’s in your Monday afternoon class? Has been for nearly a year? Remember? Hello?”

And off the teacher went…

Okay, then. Thanks, that was just very helpful. Yes, turn on your heels and walk away from us. And by the way? You’re feet are nasty. And you’re not a very good dancer. (Okay, this last part was in my head. But I meant every word of it. And I know, dancers have rough-looking feet. I just didn’t know how rough… And they are rough.)

We managed to figure it out. I did my best to hide my annoyance with her clueless teacher and the crazy chaos of the afternoon. I got her into the studio for her photos, only had to remind one other mother (lady, why so rude? Take a look around. There are other people living in your world.) that we were there first, so get to the back of the line. Then, we headed up to the studio for rehearsal. And waited. And waited. And waited. Then, waited some more. And finally, it was announced that there would be no rehearsal for the preschool ballerinas, as their teacher needed to be with her own girls for group photos. So, go home. And we’ll see you on Saturday, for the performance.

That’s tomorrow. It is the official ballet school performance. And it’s been three weeks since the girls were in class, working on their routines. The holiday, class photos, Spring Break, etc. And none of the parents can help the girls practice at home because they won’t let us stay and watch our girls dance. So, now we are all clueless. And I’m supposed to be sending Pea to a performance tomorrow? Who the heck wants to watch a bunch of stressed-out 4-year olds dance in a performance that none of them remembers ever having done before?

Needless to say, Pea announced to me after class that she would not be performing in the recital. And without even confirming it with my husband, I let her know that her decision was a solid one. And that we were instead going to have fun at her best friend’s birthday party.

And then, I called the gymnastics studio in town, to get their summer schedule. And you know what? They answered their phone on the first ring. Can you imagine? I have a good feeling about this…

So, this is another ‘first’ of many more to come, I’m sure: not finishing what she started. But this one? Is sanctioned by mommy. And it’s okay.

Have a great weekend…

Girls: Mommy, can we go downstairs and play?

Mommy: Yup. Just make sure to play with one toy at a time, when you’re done with it, put it away and take out another. It’s more fun that way.

Girls: Okay.

(cue the sounds of toys, dolls and art supplies being thrown all around the room; oops, there goes the dollhouse… crash!)

Mommy: Oh. My. God. What the? Who the heck is going to clean THIS up?

Girls: YOU are!

Mommy: Oh no, you are sooooooooo mistaken, my little mess-makers. YOU are both going to clean up this mess. Or else…

Girls: Or else? Or else what? We’re going outside!

Mommy: Stupid toys. Barbie shoes – why so tiny? Pfft. Who the heck needs this many books? And Legos? Why so many pieces? Ouch! I just stepped on one! Jeez, I freaking hate this. What? I have nothing better to do than to clean up after these people? Really? Come on, guys! Team players! I’m not your maid! Or your servant! Stupid toys. That’s it. I’m done. And another thing? Husband? While we’re at it? Put your stupid belt away and stop peeling off your socks and leaving them on the floor! Just grow up! This is not my life’s work! To clean up after you, either! What, I have three kids now?

(This last part? Is spoken to myself, with the muffled sounds of my girls running around outside, in the backyard. Not helping me clean up their junk. My husband? Is making monster sounds, chasing them. I, in all of my OCD-ness, am inside, organizing toys, finding missing pieces, taping up ripped pages in books, etc.

So, I do what any mother would do, or at least what I’m told any mother would do: the next time the mess is made, I threaten to take the toys away if they are not put back in their place at the end of the day, and put them in the Sunday Bag. Which means you will not see them again until Sunday. Got it? Sunday. And then, I do, again, what any mother would do. And I follow through. I stomp around the house, pick up the ignored and discarded toys, place them in a sac and throw them in a clever hiding place, much to the girls’ pleading of, “no! Not that one! It’s my favorite!”

And then? Well, you can guess how this ends, right? NO ONE REMEMBERS THOSE TOYS IN THE SUNDAY BAG EVER EVEN EXISTED.

Stupid Sunday Bag.

So, I have since gone through all of the toys in the house, found all of their parts and pieces and taken a careful inventory. Kid not old enough for it? Stored for later use. Kid not interested? Donated to a worthy organization. Kid outgrown it? Passed down to a friend with a younger child. And on and on. Now? Streamlined. Toys, games and books that I have deemed fit for our home, our needs, our tastes.

This story is ending up a lot longer than I’d planned, but here is Chapter 2:

Meaghan (love the spelling!) sent me an email earlier in the week, suggesting that I check out a book on Amazon that she just received called “Cool Spaces for Kids.” She thought I’d like it. And she was right. UPS dropped off my copy this afternoon, and I cannot put it down. In fact, Pea and I just spent the last hour pouring over the pictures, talking about which projects we should tackle, and when.

The premise of the book is basically the same rule that we are trying to live by these days: less is more. Imagination is good. And children should have special places – just for them – in and around the house. A place all their own.

Interesting timing, since:

my husband and I have discussed the empty flower bed in the side yard, and how we’d like to teach the girls about food by having them grow their own vegetables. We’re starting with lettuce and cucumbers (this is covered in the book);

I have been dreaming of clever (and attractive!) ways to incorporate a window seat into the stairwell on the girls’ bedroom level, just under a window that overlooks the mountain across the street (also covered in the book);

pup tents… I have had plans for erecting a couple for the girls, out in the backyard, this summer (yup, it’s in the book);

and lastly, a conversation with my husband, as we drove him to the airport this morning, about a project I’d love for him to take on: a toy storage box with a chalkboard top, for the great room. That’s where we spend most of our time entertaining, and although currently there’s nothing in there for the girls, save two cabinets full of books, the room always ends up scattered with toys at the end of the day, so why not an attractive way to house them? I showed him a picture of one, from a shop that I like. He said no problem. Upon returning home from the airport? The new book I spoke of above was at the front door, and in it is a project for this very table. And with casters! (Which I had also requested on the one my husband build for us, I think they’re not on the one for sale above. Not that it matters. Because my husband is making us one! With casters! Lucky us! And, see? It’s in the book!)

So, in a nutshell: cool book, great ideas, all easily (I think) doable. And reasonably priced to complete, as well. Fits right in with my – our – new philosophy on home style and lifestyle…

Simple. Elegant. Sophisticated. Kid (and dog!) friendly. DIY (on occasion). Not going to break the bank (always good).

I think we’re going to be busy this summer…

Enjoy your weekend. We’ll be writing up hardware store lists, ourselves…

Oh, I almost forgot… Thanks, Meaghan!

Oh, well. We can’t all be as OCD as me…

But this whole school closure thing has irked a lot of people, not just us. Not only were the schools closed, but events were canceled and postponed. Parents couldn’t get to work because someone had to stay home with the kids, since no one would use the drop-in childcare facilities. Remember? They told us not to let our kids congregate? Well, parents took that to heart. I can’t tell you what that kind of advice in this current economy did to the psyche of our friends and neighbors. It wreaked havoc on our town, and in the end it was all for not much. Better safe than sorry, you say? Well, this was way past that. It was panic and the level was disturbing. Grocery shopping last week? There was a run on nearly every staple in the store. And soap? Good luck finding a single bottle that said “Antimicrobial” on it. Or any other, for that matter. Some idiot on NPR was suggesting that we all follow his lead and stock up on the necessities just in case we needed to be in confined to our homes for a month or so, while this all got sorted out. In line at the post office on Wednesday, behind a mother with her two school-age kids? I had to turn my head and bite my cheek to keep from laughing out loud at this woman’s exchange with her kids. “Don’t touch that. Get your hands away from your face. Cover your mouth. No, I said don’t touch that. No. Stop it! Okay, that’s it. Give me your hand. Maybe if I’m holding it, you’ll stop touching.” Get a grip. They’re kids. They touch things. Gross things. Disgusting things. In fact, we all touch things. Here, have some of my Purell and then get back to living your life…

So, we spent most of our week off eating Mexican food, barbecuing in the backyard with friends and sewing up summer dresses and skirts and making fabric flowers to adorn plain white Hanes boys’ tanks and tee-shirts with (these shirts comes in packs of 5 in the boy’s dept. of Target, about $6 a package – you can’t beat that!)… It was fun and productive and I’m delighted to learn that I can do these things. And do them well. I have found sewing and knitting to be very, very good for my soul. I’m sure my husband is just delighted that the very nice sewing machine he bought me for my birthday years ago has finally come out of hiding and been dusted off. I’m glad to prove that this was not a whim – yet another thing that I thought I wanted to do, said I wanted to do, but in the end never did. I did it. So, yeah, me!

Coco is talking up a storm these days, and I’m so glad that her big sis is back on schedule so that she and I can have our mornings, three days a week, back for ourselves. It’s our time alone, the two of us, when she has my full attention. It’s hard when her older sister is here. She’s a whirlwind of constant motion. Always into something, doing something, talking. Coco not only cannot get a word in edgewise, but I feel that she sometimes gets lost in the shuffle. She’s so mellow and easy-going, that she just doesn’t ask for much. She’s content to be playing off in the corner on her own. And while I love that she can entertain herself, I adore the times with her when we get to play with her fairy castle and read books and chase each other through the yard. Bonding at it’s best.

So, we have some new basketballs that my husband took the girls shopping for yesterday, and Coco and I intend to put her new pink one to good use this morning. We’re going to put on our sneakers, load up on the sunscreen and head out into the morning chill for Coco’s first official game of “H.O.R.S.E.”

Happy Friday!

Aargh.

They say not to congregate. Not to have our kids around other kids, healthy or not. To stay inside. In our own homes. And do things that we all know we should do. Wash our hands. Do not touch our faces. Cover our mouths when we sneeze. You know, stuff that heretofore only rocket scientists and brain surgeons knew to do.

Kidding. I kid.

Kinda’.

I’m irritated. We’re all irritated. It’s crazy over here, the level of fear that the local government offices involved in this decision have set into motion.

It’s the flu.

Yes, I know the big picture is that ‘they’ are trying to prevent this particular strain from morphing into a more virulent strain, come fall, but seriously? What are we going to have to do to make sure that’s not going to happen?

Apparently, home schooling is the answer. A life of solitude enjoyed in the comfort of one’s own home.

Open the schools back up! Please! We’re running out of things to do over here. And that one kid? Who had the only documented case of this flu in our school district? He’s all better now. Has been for two weeks…

And, so… a brief rundown of the last few days for our family…

Sidewalk chalk? Check.

Summer dresses on the sewing machine using this gorgeous Heather Ross print? Check.

New Princess crowns? Check.

Handmade fabric flowers lovingly cut out, formed and sewn onto the front of a plain white tee-shirt? Check. And ouch.

Homemade Ginger Chocolate Chip cookies? Check. And yum.

New books read over and over? Check.

“Charlie and Lola” on TV? Check. (Even mama watches this one; so darn appealing…)

The natives are getting restless…

Are you? Getting restless? What are you and yours doing to pass the time, if your schools are also shut down? I need ideas! We’re running out of projects, and we’re barely into the first full week of being out of school!

And by the way, Mr. Schools’ Superintendent? And Mr. Guy From the County Health Department? Really? We should 1) keep our kids inside, away from others? 2) Not congregate? And 3) Take our families out to shop and eat? Huh? What the?

My suggestion? Hire new speech writers. Or maybe? Think before you open your mouths…

It’s a cacophony of sleep sounds at night. Her protests, as I tuck her into her bed. The sound of her hangers hitting the floor of her closet, as she enters it, pulls everything off the hanging rods and dumps it on the ground. Then the distinctive ‘whoosh’ as her door opens, and she creeps out into the halfway, curious as to the life that’s being lived above her, after it’s lights out for her.

She almost always ends up in our room, particularly when my husband is away. My take? I don’t care where she sleeps, as long as I, too, am sleeping. I don’t get enough of it. Does any mother? So I’m going to do whatever it is I have to do to get it. And yet, I have to laugh and roll my eyes at my own hypocrisy of days gone by. “Everyone has their own bed, their own room, and they need to stay in it. End of discussion.” It’s amusing to me how I was the perfect mother before I actually had kids. “Oh, I would never, ever tolerate that behavior from my child. Not in a million years.”

Those words? Need a little seasoning. They don’t taste that good.

I’ve read every book there is to read. I’m done with the books. I’m done with the ‘styles’ of parenting. Are you attachment? Do you CIO in your home? Ooh, we’re in the throes of Ferberizing…

Enough.

At this point, I’m realizing that it’s a matter of what works for which kid at whatever point in time. That usually equals a mix of a ton of parenting advice I’ve read in the books, a lot of winging it and always, always, a silent prayer to get me through this minute. Please. Just this one minute…

Still, I’m tired. And frustrated. Feeling put upon at times; sometimes even resentful. I actually had an out-of-body experience the other day, wherein I looked at my hands typing on the keyboard, and thought to myself, “who’s hands are those? What the? Where am I? Who am I? How did I get here?” Turns out it was just a precursor to one of my infamous panic attacks. I don’t get them all that often, but when I do? Ouch.

I spent most of the day today running errands. At least the family joined me. And the first stop was at JoAnn’s, where I loaded up on some supplies for my sewing machine. Doll clothes are my new obsession. And pillows. And all of that creation of beautiful things is helping me get through these days. One at a time. It’s my outlet.

Tonight? Microwave popcorn, a cowl that I’m knitting for GiGi and “The Office.” And then? Off to bed. Hopefully, just myself and my husband. No tiny feet kicking me all night, no propeller arms slapping at me in the dark of the bedroom. No… no… Oh, who am I kidding? It is what it is, and it’s going to be what it’s going to be… Two adults, three dogs and an almost 4-year old, crammed into what I once referred to as the world’s largest king-size bed.

Hope you all sleep well tonight, yourselves…

Frida the doll went everywhere with Pea, for quite some time. She was a beloved companion for a long time. She was referred to as “Feeda.” And then, my mother-in-law gave Pea her first Barbie doll. Ballerina Barbie, to be exact. Pea was entirely too young at the time, and so we had to remove the tiny shoes and the tiara. But she loved that little doll into the ground. Well, into the trash can, which is where I threw her when she became so damaged that I couldn’t bear to look at her another moment. Sound cruel? In all honesty, it was a relief. I thought to myself, “Pea is young. And out of sight, out of mind. No big thing. Moving on.” Sorry, I’m just not a “Barbie” kind of girl. And I never was. Because my mother wasn’t. I recall asking for a nurse’s kit as a kid. I received a doctor’s kit, instead. And the comment from my mom that I could be anything I wanted to be in life. “Even a doctor.” That I shouldn’t be “shackled” by being a girl. And “who told you that you could only be a nurse, anyway?” I think I was about four-years old.

And so, while I don’t necessarily encourage the Barbie thing, I don’t deny it to Pea. She was up for a little reward a week or so ago, for waking up in the middle of the night, and rather than stomping up the stairs to our bedroom to wake me up and ask if she could use my bathroom, she used her own bathroom. It was a big deal, so we headed out to the toy store. And spent the next 90 minutes inspecting each and every Barbie, pink Barbie Corvette, Barbie outfit and Barbie doll knock-off. Because I don’t want her sitting on a therapist’s couch in her twenties, lamenting how it’s all her mom’s fault for not letting her have a Barbie doll. Or a Disney Princess doll, either. She is, after all, only three. And her middle name is “fickle…” She’s ditched Barbie for greener, or should I say pinker, pastures…

That’s right, Disney is her current obsession – Disney Princesses. She knows them all by name. Knows them by hair color, dresses, sidekicks. Where she got this information, this vast knowledge of mass-marketing genius, I’ll never know. It certainly was not from me. She’s never seen a Disney movie or read a Disney book. But she’s in it, for good, at this point. And whereas she wanted to be a mermaid for Halloween about one month ago, which then became a ballerina after her first ballet class earlier this week, she’s now announced that she’s going to be a princess. A Disney princess.

I know, I know… all little girls dream of growing up, marrying Prince Charming, and becoming a princess, right? And they fantasize about their weddings, too, right? Parading around their bedrooms, a white pillowcase hanging from their little heads, pretending it’s a veil? Well, not this little girl. I dreamt of being a veterinarian. And up until the moment the Judge at my wedding said, “I now pronounce you husband and wife,” I never thought I’d actually get married, either.

And so, it’s somewhat ironic, to me, that I’m sitting here, a married woman in her mid-30s, with a daughter who just came into my office, cradling her Frida Kahlo doll like a delicate newborn baby, and announced to me, “shh… you need to be quiet. Belle is taking a nap.”

“Belle? That’s Frida, sweetie. Not Belle.”

To which she screamed back at me, “Her name is Belle! Belle, Belle, Belle! And you just woke her up! Be quiet!“

Yes, ironic is the word I’d use…