|Behold My Whirling Dervish & Her Art|
Yesterday I caught her trying to shove her feet into her tiny knock-off Uggs that she wore when she was two. These boots had made it to the recycle box and destined for another child's feet via a long-overdue cleaning of the front closet. A closet that threatened to avalanche if I ignored it for another weekend.
G did not agree with my assessment of these lightly-worn but too small boot's purpose. Standing on her tippy-toes in order to walk in them, when she caught me looking she yelled 'SEE! I told you they still fit.' This was punctuated with a disgusted huff-like appropriate noise.
And see these roses that we purchased in a fit of 'I feel so pretty' last week? She's trying to convince me to keep all the petals now that they are wilted. All I can see coming from keeping the petals is a huge mess in the near future that will probably involve me picking crushed rose petals out of either the couch, her bed, our bed, or all of the above. I'm going to need to pull a fast one on her and dump them after she's gone to bed. How I'll justify it, I don't know (suggestions in the comment section greatly appreciated).
Though I did draw the line quickly after a recent re-acquisition of her crossed my personal comfort line. Sitting on her bed, I noticed a familiar nude coloured strap peeking out from a pile of her own clothing. After tugged on it, out slipped a bra that had recently been thrown out. It had ripped wide open -- cups separated from the centre -- which I'd like to think was from my heaving damsel bosom bursting forth from it's chains but was more than likely due to the fact that particular bra was way past it's prime. I guess I have a thing for not being able to let things go either. *ahem*
Anyway. This I had to confiscate, despite her protests. Don't need her bringing that in for show and tell at school. I'd like to call that repo: a crisis averted.