Tuesday, January 15, 2013

You really can't make this stuff up.

My husband and I have a locked box that we keep under the bed. It's a special box. We unlock it when we need something from it, and then we lock it again before pushing it back under the bed.

Except for when we don't remember to lock it again.

Our two youngest play all over the house, including on, around, and under our bed. Normal kid stuff. They have cultivated an especial interest in the nice little beech wood box with the apple green lid. They ask what's inside, we say nothing special. They ask us to unlock it and we decline.

So of course one of the eagle eyed youngsters was bound to notice one morning that the latch was flipped up, that the little padlock was laying to the side. This set up was the same as a written invitation to look inside. My daughter looked inside.

"Mommy, I know what's in your box now."

"Really?" Mommy bee lines to the box and holds it to her chest. "I think I will lock it up again anyway."

"You can lock it," she said, "But I know what's inside already."

"So what's inside?"

"Candy... and toothpaste."

I've learned my lesson about attempting to communicate with my daughter within the confines of the truth. At least on certain subjects.

"Yep," I said, sliding the padlock on, locking it, and placing the key in a place only a person who has grown more than five feet could reach, even if standing on a chair. "You're absolutely right."

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