Last weekend I took the big girls to a party. It was an outdoor party and my very Irish husband, who doesn't do well in the sun, opted to stay home. I decided to leave the baby home because it would have been a pain keeping an eye on the girls while hunched over, clipping Mac's heels. At one and a half, being held and sitting still is not an option.
I had all intentions of staying no more than two ours, but that turned into four because the girls were having a blast. I got a few "when are you guys coming home?" texts from Frank. A couple of "she won't sit still...EVERs" and one " She got hold of a crayon and colored all over the floor."
Me: Um...how'd that happen?
Frank: I went down to do laundry and when I came back up, I noticed her "art" on
Me: You left her loose while you went downstairs?
Frank: What'd you expect me to do? lock her up? imprison her?
Me: Um...yea. Well at least strap her in the high chair until you could monitor
I walked into the house about an hour after our conversation and there are stuffed animals peeking out from under the couch, items from our winter bucket, including ear muffs and scarves, on the dining room floor and toys in various spots around the house. Frank eventually points in the direction of the crime. There are scribbles on the floor and a black crayon nearby. I call Mac over and begin to interrogate her. I have to give her credit, because she played it cool. It seems that my child has graduated from feigning innocence to throwing folks under the bus. Somehow, according to Mac, Maya was the culprit even though she wasn't home at the time of the crime. Her cuteness was convincing. If I didn't know better, Maya would be on punishment right now.