Monday night is fast becoming Aunt Tracey night.
I coached the yahoos on how to say 'Tracey!' during all 19 blocks of our drive home from daycare. They had progressed to the point where they could both mumble out a passable 'Sooossie', which was nowhere even close to the neighborhood of 'Tracey', but I told them they were trying very hard and that was superb. None of it was worth a lick when I pulled up at the house and they saw Aunt Tracey, for they failed to say a peep. Morons! Naysayers! Conspirators!
Jen felt compelled once again to be a good student and go to class tonight, so once more my sister came by to hang with us. By 'hang with us' I do mean 'bring us dinner and do the dishes and make googly faces at the girls'.
A notable event from the day includes Lily's obstinate refusal to have her clothes changed or altered in any way. I'm at a loss as to what is causing this, but it happened both this morning and tonight. Both times, she fought the changing as if it was her last stand against a grizzly death. Tooth and nail. Thrashing and kicking. It got ugly, especially in the morning. Is this some desperate power grab of hers? Is she exerting herself in an effort to carve out some autonomy in her life, to prove to us that she is in charge of her clothing schedule? Whatever it is, it makes the mechanics of the day an outright tribulation.
I'll shortly be reviewing the day care rules of conduct to find anything dealing with bringing in kids in their jammies; I can't imagine it hasn't been brought up before.
Day two hundred and eighty seven.
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