Mom, We Need to Talk

In the middle of my cleaning-of-the-bathrooms and Madeleine’s psuedo-cleaning-of-her-bedroom, she clears her throat and says:

“Mom, can we stop cleaning and sit down? I need to talk to you for a minute.”

Uh-oh. This sounds important. Maybe she’s being bullied at school. Maybe a teacher was mean to her. Is she unhappy? Or does she already like a boy? Oh my word – is she gonna ask me about sex and babies? No!

“I used to have lots of silly bands and now I can’t find some of them.”

First: Phew.
Second: This is what she interrupted me for?

I say, “Well, it looks like you have about 50 on your arm right now.”

She looks at me deadpan and says, “It’s 16.”

“You counted?”

“Yes. And here are more – 17, 18, 19, 20 . . . . . 28. So I’m gonna have 28 on my arm.”

I am not happy that you got me out of cleaning mode because your aunt is coming tomorrow and I need to get the house cleaned and you have a nonexistent problem.

I say, “Good, honey. You have lots of silly bands!”

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