Yesterday, I stumbled upon a conversation on Twitter regarding the age you’d let your child read Hunger Games. It was interesting, because Morgan and I have had this conversation many times. I have not let her read Hunger Games. She’s ten. Technically they are kid books. However, I’ve read it myself and I find it to be a bit violent. I’m a little shocked that it’s a “kid” book. Not that I won’t eventually give in and let her read the book. It just seems like it’s too much. If that makes sense.
In this moment, she has a senior in High School reading level. She just turned ten. I am often lost in how to encourage her to read to her highest potential and in the fact that she’s still little. She’s still a little girl. Maybe this is the first step in her growing up. Maybe it’s not. How am I supposed to know where to draw the line? She is a big reader. She will read anything. That doesn’t exactly mean that I want her reading anything.
In a way, she’s naive. Her life has always been safe. She’s spoiled in many ways. When she has any issue, whether a fight with a friend at school or a nightmare, her father and I are always there to talk it through with her. There is family all around her who believe her to be one of the smartest, most amazing kids in the world. (Sometimes the fact that Logan and I are the only ones with kids is awesome.) In other ways, she’s wise beyond her years. She at times acts more like a responsible 28 year old than a ten year old. Her understanding about the ways of the world shocks me at times. She knows about divorce, suicide, depression and miscarriage. She knows adult words for her emotions. She can cook to a degree, do laundry and clean.
Yet part of me wants to shield her from the realities and oddities found in other peoples words. I let her read Number the Stars by Louis Lowry last year. We discussed the Holocaust. We talked about our families story. She knows that Hitler killed people. Somehow though, I stopped before allowing her to read The Diary of Anne Frank. I couldn’t make myself tell her that so many kids were killed. I will one day, I just couldn’t make myself do it that day. I’ll likely explain it all, before she learns it in school. But at nine, I thought she was too young. I feared she’d obsess about it. I feared it would feed into her light anxiety. I suppose I feared it would make her grow up in a way. Too much knowledge at times can do that.
Hunger Games is about kids forced to kill each other. Kids who are allowed to starve. For sport. This book, that game is considered a sport. I’m not sure that I’m ready for her to read that. I don’t know why. I’ve let her read Harry Potter and Percy Jackson. Kids die in both. Kids at times turn on each other in both series. Why does this one feel so different? I don’t have the answer, I just know that it does.
I’ll let my kids watch Transformers, X-men and Spiderman. Why won’t I let her watch Grey’s Anatomy or CSI? I have no idea. I don’t, much to her disappointment. There are kids in her class who watch Grey’s with their parents. Here, I call it an adult show and leave it at that. I watch things like that on nights when the kids are at their dads, or after they are asleep.
The time is coming for me to let her grow up. It’s coming. I feel it. But it’s not here yet. I guess, maybe she’s sheltered. In a lot of ways, I know she is. I’ll tell you something though, I wish I’d been more sheltered. I was allowed to watch anything. Dirty Dancing isn’t exactly most six year old kids favorite movie. I was allowed to read anything. Hi, V.C. Andrews at 11 years old. If I could unread that shit I would. But I can’t. (My mom isn’t really a fuck up. She just was busy getting her education…and she believed in kids knowing the truth about everything, since she’d grown up knowing nothing. I mean really, my grandma handed my mother the instructions from the Tampon box when she was eleven and said tell me when you need this.) All I can do is try and not allow her to read something that she’s not emotionally ready for. Just because she can read it and comprehend it, doesn’t mean she should.
I want her to just be ten. To be a little girl still. To be innocent. Maybe in a way I’m fooling myself. But is it so wrong to want her to stay little as long as possible?
So…what say you? Is ten too young for Hunger Games? What would you do?
Have you ever sat at breakfast on a relatively calm and peaceful morning and thought, how could I change this to be a morning filled with screaming and tantrums? I mean really, what’s a morning without a good ole fashioned tantrum?
Well no fear my friends, I have the answer for you. All you have to do is realize that your children weren’t with you on Sunday and so their nails and toenails haven’t been trimmed.
Simply take out the clipper and voila: TANTRUMS AND SCREAMING!!!!!
You are very welcome.
I generally don’t condone any type of violence. My kids get an automatic time out for smacking, kicking or shoving each other. Well, when I see it at least. That’s why when I showed up at the girls day camp last week and heard that Bailey had kicked a kid in the nuts, she was a bit surprised when she wasn’t in trouble. In fact, I was proud of her.
Turns out there was a boy who’d been trying to kiss her non-stop for two days. He’d been repeatedly told to knock it off. He’d been separated from her. He’d been told why it wasn’t okay. Yet, he continued, despite all of her attempts to tell him to stop it. Literally, she was over heard numerous times asking him to stop, telling him no. The last thing she supposedly screamed at him before kicking him in the nuts was: NO MEANS NO!!!!
I have never been prouder to hear that my kid resorted to violence.
My brother teaches kick boxing and jujitsu to little kids, as his second job. He’s phenomenal at it. He tells my girls all of the time that using your words is the most important thing you can do. However, he also has taught them what to do when words don’t seem to be working.
The first thing Bailey asked to do when we got to the car, was call her uncle. He was proud of her. I was proud of her. She tried everything else first and then? She protected herself.
Not yet seven years old and she’s just so awesome. I’m so proud.
I used to have a few of those Guinness records books when I was a kid. My brother and I thought it was the coolest thing ever. We marveled over the strongest man and the woman with the most children ever. We wondered if tree mans mom had done it with an oak tree somehow and we talked about how weird it would be to be short enough to walk under peoples chairs. The lady with the longest hair always made me cringe. Can you imagine having to brush that?
Hours were spent pouring over this book. Medical marvels. Greatest feats. Scientifically odd. Facts.
I always did like facts.
After a time, I stopped looking in that book. I knew all of it. I never really thought about it again. Until last weekend, when Morgan saw it and wanted it at Barnes & Noble. Of course it’s the newest version. The 2011 version with “thousands” of new facts. Not some weird 1989 copy that I’d had for years. I wasn’t going to buy it for her. It seemed like a waste of money. But then…I remembered sitting with my brother for hours in the backseat of a car, giggling over the weirdness. Who am I to not give that to my children?
Last night as they laughed at the woman with the longest nails and discussed the largest star, I thought, hey this is kinda cool. I am passing on something good. Something besides a love for cooking and design shows. They are learning something and having a good time. What could possibly be wrong with that?
Then Bailey got mad at Harrison and smacked him with the book. But hey, things happen right?
Am I the only one who loved this crazy stuff? I can’t be, right? Not with the amount of shows on TLC and Discovery channel.
ps. I wrote a post over HERE, if you are interested.
I do. I lie to my kids. Innocent lies mostly. Lies to make my life easier. Lies to try and keep the magic of childhood alive for them.
I lie to my kids about Santa. Or well, I did for years. Now both of the girls know the truth, each told around age six by some punk kid at school. (Harrison doesn’t fully get it yet, but I plan on him believing in Santa as well.) When asked point blank by each of my daughters, I did tell the truth. I also made them swear to keep it quiet for other kids and their siblings. I believe in truth telling, when asked. I do. I find it to be important. You will never hear me tell my kids that the stork brought them to my doorstep.
I have never seen how it’s an issue. I see the distinction. Lying about Santa hasn’t ever been a big deal. It’s believing in what you can’t see. It’s being innocent. It’s believing in magic. How is that bad?
I guess to some people, it is bad. Any lying is horrible. We should all tell our children the truth. All the time. If we will lie to them about Santa, we are setting them up for failure later in life. At least that is what I hear from certain people who don’t tell their kids any lies ever.
Can you imagine that? Never, ever, ever lying to your children? Their are people online who claim they never do. Not about Santa. Not about anything. There were a few people who said as much in this post by Mom 101′s post on Santa last week.
I asked a few people I know locally. I had a woman tell me that she never lies to her kids. She tells them the truth about everything. They know about her budget/money issues. They do not believe in magic of any kind. They will never not know reality, were her exact words.
It was eye opening for me. Kind of sad in a way. That someone’s 9, 5 and 3 year olds should only know reality. Reality seems very harsh for a three year old child. It’s harsh as an adult. Why in the world should a three year old know that yet?
I don’t even necessarily care if you tell your kids the truth about Santa. Some kids prefer to know. Some figure it out. Some are Jewish. Or whatever. There are always going to be kids who don’t believe in Santa. I mean I wish those kids wouldn’t ruin it for other kids. But that’s part of life.
It was the, I never lie to my children that didn’t sit right with me. Really? NEVER?
I’m calling that a giant lie right there.
You never told your kids that broccoli are little trees? That the ice cream is all gone? That you were “wrestling” with daddy? Ahem.
You’ve never told any lie? I just don’t buy that.
Dora is napping. Lucky the dog went to live on a farm. Spotty the fish is swimming to the ocean now.
If you keep rolling your eyes at me, one day they will get stuck up there. How will you feel then?
Oh this? This is monster spray. It gets rid of all the monsters. Milk makes you grow strong muscles like Daddy. Green beans? Oh they make you super tall like Uncle. You want to be super tall don’t you?
McDonald’s is closed today. The park is closed today. Disney World is only open for kids over ten.
Oh that song by Miley Cyrus, Party in the USA? Oh it started skipping badly on iTunes, so I had to delete it.
Oh these Peppermint Joe-Joe’s are spicy son.very spicy. Ow. You wouldn’t like them. Here have a Chips Ahoy.
Some of those are just mine. I am funny, in that, I tell my children the truth on big things. Yet, I will lie to them on small innocent things, as witnessed above. Life is harsh. I’ve explained cancer, death, divorce, suicide, war and the Holocaust all in the past year. I won’t lie on those things.
My children know the correct names of their private parts and we’ve had many discussions about what is okay touching and what isn’t. I will never sugar coat that one. As much as I wish I could.
Yet the small, innocent, doesn’t hurt anyone, yet makes my life easier lie? I’m all for it.
I’m not alone either. I asked Twitter. Here were a few examples.
That was a great one. I need to remember it next summer.
This will come to bite you on the butt in a year or two friend, but I commend you on your answer to a seven year old. Sometimes, they don’t want to hear the truth.
I do this one all time. With Elmo. With Cars. With Toy Story. This is called, sanity saving.
Been there, done that. It only works until they learn where you hide it. Actually then they start using it back on you.
I got a lot of answers like this. I can text, email, call Santa. I myself used it for years.
I love that one. Pretty sure I used it a time or two in the past.
Little lies. Parents….well most parents tell them every now and again. Is it going to make our children all become ax murderers? Somehow I doubt it.
So…what say you? Do you lie to your kids?
1. Am I the only one who feels like they spend all day saying to a toddler, please use your quiet voice? Even though, you have a sinking feeling that said toddler has no quiet voice?
2. Do I have the only child who says: What??? What? What? all the time? I swear to you, she has no problem hearing. She just says what to me whenever she is trying to ignore what I’m saying. Is this a six year old thing? I have no idea. I do know it’s making me insane.
3. Am I the only one who feels guilty sending their child back to school, after having been home for a day sick (She had pink eye. She’s no longer contagious. I think.), yet also you are overcome with happiness that said child won’t be at home all day? Because holy cow, you nearly had to sell her whiny butt on EBay yesterday.
4. Am I the only one who hears a new saying on Twitter and takes it and uses it on their kids? As an example, I tend to say to my kids, I need you to find your listening ears please. I’ve said it for years. The other day I was on Twitter and QueenofSpain said, I’m really tired of saying, please be a first time listener. DUDE, that is a great line. I decided to steal it. Or well I asked Erin, if she’d like to trade. I’ve only managed to say it a few times, but it’s given them pause. Ha. Might work a little better for a while, since it’s new.
5. Do you actually like turkey?
Two years ago Logan and I decided to make a 24 hour rule about Halloween candy. The previous year had been an absolute nightmare. Morgan snuck candy at every possible chance. We found wrappers hidden for months. The girl managed to find it anywhere we hid it. She became this little sugar obsessed loony. Which wasn’t very pleasant in a four year old with ADHD. We swore never again.
We invented the 24 hour rule. Its very simple really. For 24 hours after trick or treating, they can have as much candy as they want. True to form, they ate a ton of it and by the end of yesterday, they were over it. Neither of them has looked at the bowl of candy since 6pm yesterday. It looses its appeal after a bit. From here on out, when I say, one piece of candy, neither will argue. Whatever is left in a week or two, I will throw away. Last year, I tossed more than half of their candy. Basically whatever is left by Thanksgiving is trash.
The downfall of course is that last night, we had to peel them off of the ceiling.
At 8pm, which was really 9pm, but isn’t anymore (I hate time changes), they were both still bouncing off the walls. They are normally asleep by 8:15pm. I couldn’t even get Bailey to put a shirt on. She couldn’t stay still long enough.
Logan and I just watched them dance around in circles for like 20 minutes and by then it was getting close to 9pm. Nothing we said, nothing we did was helping. I’d started thinking that the 24 hour rule was not a smart one.
We finally decided to separate them. I took Bailey into our room and he stayed with Morgan.
I climbed into bed, pulled her in with me and turned out all the lights. She fidgeted for a good ten minutes and then finally I felt her start to settle. Her words got slower and quieter. Eventually she fell asleep.
I considered getting up. I had laundry to do, dishes to clean, I needed to call my mother, I’d heard my cell phone beep three times which I knew were texts from Liz, and we had The Amazing Race on DVR to watch. But I didn’t. I stayed there with my baby girl. I stayed with her all cuddled into me. I listened to her breath and I played with her hair. I breathed in her smell: Gain on her clean PJ’s, melon scented shampoo, bubble gum toothpaste, and the smell of her. The smell of little girls, the smell of my little girl.
I stayed there. I fell asleep with my baby girl. Funny enough, Logan stayed with Morgan. Neither of us got up.
At 5 and nearly 8 years old, they always sleep in their own room. They never sleep with us. This was nice, a nice sweet change. Made me think that the 24 hour rule is not such a bad one.
Hey friends, one more thing, can you guys do me a favor? My evil plan worked and Liz started a new blog, called Lacking Super Powers. Would you mind going to visit her? It’s all pretty and shiny and new over there. Heck, she even posted. Give her some blog love for me? Thanks so much.
by Issa, my blog title has crazy in it for a reason.
I do most of my grocery shopping at a Super Target, not to far from my house. Mostly, because I don’t like having to go to three stores. It has a full grocery store in it and that makes me happy. Also, I am lazy.
I was waiting in line at the pharmacy. It being Sunday around noon, there was about five people in front of me in line. I wait with the kids for a good fifteen minutes. Right as it was almost my turn a guy comes up, walks right past everyone in line and goes directly to the pharmacist. I just shook my head in disbelief. The woman behind me started to say something, but I can guarantee you this guy wasn’t paying attention. By then their were about six people behind me in line.
I wish I was one of those people who thought of the great one line to say to people, in the moment. I’m not. I’m the, think of a great line at 2am the following morning, when the time for saying it to anybody but Logan, is long gone. I wanted to call the man names, that’s for sure. I DM’ed Liz that I wanted to call the man a fucktard, but it occurred to me that I didn’t want Harrison to learn to say that, not so close to the holidays. It wasn’t even that he took up time, because he was done in a few minutes. It’s that people feel so entitled to cut in front of a line full of people. Because god forbid he needs his medications more that the rest of us.
I wish I’d told him to be careful, that I was picking up my crazy meds and I hadn’t had any yet. It’d of been a lie though. Mostly, I wanted him to not be a fucktard. To somehow magically learn at probably fifty years old that he is not the only human being on the face of the planet. That the sun does not rise and set out of his ass. I said nothing.
I continue shopping knowing I am forgetting things, but I can’t seem to find my list. I am feeling stabby and can’t even remember what Logan wanted to make for dinner. I argue with Bailey about why I’m not buying Rice Krispy treats, fruit snacks and cookies. She can pick one. Then I explain to her why I’m not even looking at Halloween costumes in freaking September. I debate giving Harrison to the kind woman in the isle, when he starts screaming at me, since I took away his pacifier. Instead, I give back the pacifier.
I then leave and go to where I was going to pick up sandwiches for lunch only to stand in a line of 35 people. I know it was Sunday at lunchtime, but I’ve never been there when it was this packed. It wouldn’t have bothered me normally, but I was already feeling grouchy. I’m pretty sure I yelled at my kid for looking at me. Mom of the year, I am not.
Get home and the first thing Logan says is Iss, where’s the charcoal? It was on the list. I wave the list at him, I’d just found it sitting on the kitchen counter. You mean this list?
I then realize that I’m missing peppers, onions and avocados, which were all ingredients we needed for dinner. I decide we are likely having grilled cheese again for dinner, because there is no way I am going back to any store today.
Logan unpacks the last few bags as I go change Harrison’s diaper. He comes in to the bedroom and shows me a DVD. Why’d you get this, he asks? He’s laughing at me. I’d be laughing at me too. He’s holding up The House Bunny. Click on it, if you want. It’s safe for work. However it’s a movie about a play-boy bunny, not a Disney flick.
BAILEY, I yell. What mama, she asks? What is this? How did we get home with this? You bought it for me, she says. I asked you if I could have the Barbie movie and you said yes, so I handed it to the lady.
I did. I told her she could have the Barbie movie. I thought she meant the new Barbie movie. Barbie dwells with the unicorn trolls in the universe of duh. (Yes, I’m sure that’s the name of the new Barbie movie.) I just never looked at the actual movie. I’m sure the check out lady thought I was insane to buy my five year old the Play Boy Bunny movie. In the moment, I’d been trying to get Harrison to relinquish control of my phone so I could DM Liz again. I hadn’t even looked at the movie I purchased.
I’m almost embarrassed to take that DVD back. I’m not sure what to do with it. Giving it to charity, doesn’t seem right either. I don’t think that would be helping anyone.
SO, in conclusion, these are all great reasons for why I shouldn’t ever, ever, ever have to go to the grocery store again.
Or at least great reasons for why I shouldn’t take children with me to the grocery store. Maybe I should limit myself to taking the older, helpful shopper child next time. Nah. I’m done. I quit.
Dang it, I need milk. Hmmm, I see a trip to the store in my near future.
I have read about this whole good mother/bad mother/SAHM/WAHM/WOHM thing for weeks now on the Internet. Some of you have discussed it and beautifully, I might add. It all fascinates me, this thought of what a good mother is supposed to be. I’ve pretty much ignored it, because honestly, I know I am a good mom. I also know I am a bad mom. In my world you can be both.
Today, after reading Mom 101′s post about type B mom’s, I can’t seem to get this subject out of my head. I said this in Liz’s comments and it is completely true: On my best day, I am only a B- mother.
But who says that is a bad thing? What makes a mom a perfect mom? Whose opinion matters about that, except your children’s? We all think we are being judged and sometimes we are. I know I’ve been judged, many a time. However, I’m sure I think I am being judged way more than I probably am. Maybe a B- mom isn’t such a horrible thing.
We all share on the Internet what we want too. This was something that Mom 101 was saying in her post. We tell each other what we choose to tell each other. Some are more honest than others. We are given a glimpse at each others lives, because we choose to share about it in this public space. It’s only part of the story really. A small part for most of us.
Let me try this honesty thing for a second.
I, for the record, have never breastfed my children. Not because I see anything wrong with it (in fact, I find it to be beautiful), but because it wasn’t something I felt I could do. I was a young mother, maybe that has something to do with it, maybe not. It just wasn’t something I choose to do.
I sent my daughters to daycare at seven weeks old. I worked fourteen hour days sometimes in the early years of their lives. I know what it’s like to work full time and wish I was at home with my kids. I also now know what it’s like to be at home all the bloody time and wish I was elsewhere. I’m not sure that I’m good at either of it honestly.
My kids watch too much TV; they eat too much junk food; I consider french toast a dinner**; my son hangs out playing with spoons and Tupperware lids on my bed, while I play on the Internet; and some days I go and buy everyone new underwear, just because I don’t want to do laundry.
My kids have ridden their bikes without a helmet a time or two because I got tired of the argument. They have gotten sunburned a few times because I was dumb enough to not put sunscreen on them. We do not have a safety net around our trampoline. I have yelled at them for having meltdowns and then realized I don’t remember the last time they ate. My kids are not friendly when hungry, much less logical.
Somedays I yell at them, because of nothing. I regret those days. Other times they need to be yelled at and I let it go, to try and make up for the days where I yell too much.
My seven year old has way too much knowledge of the Internet and how to use it. My almost five year old can take the parental restriction off of the cable, without even trying. They both have iPods. They know what the menus at most restaurants have on them without needing to look anymore.
My girls are the most unscheduled kids in the neighborhood. In fact the only thing they’ve been scheduled for this summer is swimming and last week, they told me they just wanted to be able to just swim, not learn anything. So? I took them off of the list for the next set of lessons. There is no ballet, no gymnastics and no t-ball this summer. I should do those things, I am sure, but I just can’t seem to make myself sign them up, because truly, then I’d have to get out of the house and take them.
I worry about all of this and much, much more. I wonder what my kids will remember from this time period of their lives. If they will remember that I took them to Disney and the beach this summer; that we slept in, stayed up late and went to the park every few evenings to swing in the dark. Will they remember me reading Harry Potter to them each night? Will they remember Sunday mornings spent in Jammies, having wii bowling and golf tournaments? Or will they remember that this was another summer where I was short with them too often, where I cried too much, where I sent them outside to play too often.
I wonder if they spend too much time at my BFF Kate’s house. I wonder if they will one day prefer her, because she is that mom. The mom who does art projects. The mom who bakes things. The mom with all the patience of a saint. I am not that mom, although I adore that she is. I am thankful for her every single day. Is it okay that my kids spend so much time with my best friend? It has to be, because that’s the way it is right now.
There is no rule book. They didn’t come with an instruction manual. Trust me, I looked. And who says a B- mom is not enough? Who gets to make that judgement call? Who says a C mom isn’t good enough? Because lots of days, I am only a C mom. A solid C even, no plus sign attached.
Some days I think my kids are the amazing people they are despite me. Some days I think it might be in spite of me. On occasion I think, dam I am doing something right.
My girls are kind to friends, strangers, animals and especially their family. They think highly of themselves and each other. Self esteem: they both have it. Self doubt? Yes, they have that too, but a lot less then I did at their ages. They are honest, strong, brave and inquisitive. They are everything I could of hoped for in daughters and everything I hope their brother gets too.
We all have days where we think we are horrible at this parenting gig, right? Those who say other wise are lying threw their over whitened teeth.
I? Am a good mother and also a bad mother. Maybe, I am the good enough mother. But that has to be okay too.
** Okay, here is another thing. We say things on the Internet, then realize that even in a post where we are being brutally honest, we choose to fib a bit. The truth is, my dinner default idea is currently cereal. I stole the french toast thing from my lovely friend Liz (also know as @elizzieh), because it sounded better than saying my family currently lives on cereal. French toast is actually her default dinner, not mine. Liz, who I have to thank for um everything, was kind enough to read this and not yell at me about stealing her idea. In fact had I not brought it up, she is so awesome, that she may never have said a word. See? This honesty thing is hard.
What seems like a zillion years ago, although it was actually around this time five years ago, is where our story begins.
A certain little girl, known here as Morgan used to throw the most magnificent tantrums. If there was an Academy Award for tantrums, this child would have a house full of them. At some point, she, upon being put on her bed, stared slamming the door over and over again. This bugged her mother and father endlessly. One day, the mother made the mistake of asking her teeny tiny crazy ball of joy why she slammed the door so much. You do it, was the childs answer.
Oh. Yeah. Sheet.
Of course the mother had to explain to the father what the kid said. There was then a three slam rule made up on the spot. It went for everyone in the family, because the dad claimed that more than three slams of a door gave him migraines.
The rule was as follows: in a fit of um anger or whatever, said door may be slammed three and only three times. If said door is slammed more than that, the door will be removed from the frame, by the father, for as many days, as their was extra slams.
I’d like to tell you this ends well. That no one ever forgot this rule. But I’d be lying through my teeth. My door has gone missing more than one in the last five years. When he takes mine off, I have no idea where he takes it too. I’ve never been able to find the dam thing.
Somehow the big child and I have the same problem, although through the years we have gotten better about it. (I prefer to throw coffee mugs. Kidding. Sorta.)
Yesterday the middle child took up the reigns. I think she feels that since she is in the last month of being four, she must take full advantage of the four-ness, before it is gone. Also, it pains her that the boy is no longer a lump. Now he is everywhere and yeah, she has brother issues. The tantruming in public, being forced to nap, slamming door reigns. She did manage to only slam it three times in the afternoon.
However last night, at some point, she got pissed off at her father and got sent to bed. Then the door slamming started. Twelve times that door was slammed. Her father is a patient man, more patient than me. He waited until she calmed down and then he went upstairs and removed the door. On the wall next to it, he placed a sign, no door until this day. Which, in case you were wondering is nine days from today.
The big child was PISSED off, since the two girl children share a bedroom. I looked at her and laughed. Come on now, pot, kettle? Ringing any bells? Somehow, I do believe the middle child won’t take five years to figure out this rule.
So that’s my story of the day. Beware of the three door slamming rule.
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