I love sleeping in. Even if "sleeping in" means being prematurely awakened by your four year old who shoves her face in yours and whispers loudly, "Mommy - do I have crap in my nostrils?"
I didn't have the presence of mind to say anything other than mumble, "Yes. They're called boogers."
She thought about this. "Oh," she replied. "Can I pick them?"
Knowing that when it comes to nose picking, that attempt to teach my daughter the finer art of discretion has miserably failed, I merely scrunched up my face in disgust at her request.
Either reading facial expressions is within her ability and she wanted to make me happy or she was just promising me she wouldn't eat them when she replied, "I'll go get a tissue."
I didn't have the presence of mind to say anything other than mumble, "Yes. They're called boogers."
She thought about this. "Oh," she replied. "Can I pick them?"
Knowing that when it comes to nose picking, that attempt to teach my daughter the finer art of discretion has miserably failed, I merely scrunched up my face in disgust at her request.
Either reading facial expressions is within her ability and she wanted to make me happy or she was just promising me she wouldn't eat them when she replied, "I'll go get a tissue."
I never found out which it was.
0 comments:
Post a Comment