Hungry, desperate furloughed-government officials came knocking on the door this afternoon. The only thing that I had that would cheer them up was a Charleston Chew bar of my daughter. I sent them on their way with the chocolate and that, my dear daughter, is why your candy bar is missing. There is no other reason. No, don’t go looking in our trash can for an empty wrapper. It’s not in there. What kind of mother would steal her own child’s chocolate and then lie about it? Seriously, get away from the garbage can.
Of course, if I had eaten her candy bar, it would have been justifiable (not that I would do that!). On this miserable, foggy, rainy morning, as I was rushing to pack lunches, finish exercising, and clean up the mess that forms after every weekend, she stopped me to ask, “Mommy? What month did you and Daddy have sex in to get pregnant with me?” It wasn’t the question I minded so much as the math. Math before 7 a.m. is not my forte. “Uh… November? December? I don’t remember!” When I asked Adam, he just sort of gave us a panicked look and ran back to his computer.
Kids had their annual check-ups today. The 8 year old is officially taller than the 10 year old. Not that I told her (that’s not a lie! Just an omission) as she would never let him live it down. However, I think she figured it out. Eh, if he’s upset about it, I can give him some candy. The girl has another Charleston Chew lying around. At least for the moment she does.
