Lucy is laying claim to her daddy. (“MINE!” as Miss Skye would say.)
Miss Skye is insisting that SHE’S the baby, demanding that I carry her like a baby — even in shopping malls — and pretending to drink her doll’s bottle of milk. (Oh yeah, this should go splendidly.)
Marcy is “trying out” the new placemats we bought, rotating among all six of them to ensure that each and every one is properly furry and disgusting before my parents arrive this week.
Mmmm! Who wants spaghetti with fur balls? Mom…? Dad…? Freedom…?
Don’t worry. We’d purée it for the baby, of course.