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Bedtime is always a ridiculously long affair in this house stretching hours sometimes when you factor in the bathing, singing, reading rituals that we were psychotic enough to set up when the children were in their formative years.  Now they’ve come to expect these exhausting rituals. 

The ritual always goes that Mama reads a story, and then Daddy goes up and sings.  This will stop (as least the latter half) as soon as my children figure out that Daddy sings like a pig being raped. 

Tonight, I read my book, Alison’s Zinnia, and sent Daddy upstairs to fulfill his end of the bargain.  I heard lots of giggling before I heard any singing. 

“Your kid’s cracked,” he informed me.  Must be brand new information he thinks he presenting me with.

“Why?”

“You should hear the crap she’s saying up there to me!”

Apparently, the conversation went something like this:

Paige: When I’m older, I’m going to hire a maid to clean my room!  I hate cleaning!

Daddy: You better get a good job and make a lot of money to pay her then. 

Paige: No.  I’m going to HIRE her. 

Daddy: Um, yeah, you still need to PAY her.

Paige: Oh.  Well, why can’t we get our children to be our maids.

Yeah!  Why can’t we?  This is, after all, the deal I had in mind going INTO this whole birthing thing.

Paige: But not me!  Definitely not me!  I know!  Let’s make Allie the maid!

How kind of her to offer her little sister up for the sacrifice.  I’m sure Allie will be appreciative once she’s old enough to understand.

Daddy: Well, I don’t think that’s very fair.  Do you?

Paige: Eh, she’s little.  She needs to learn how to clean anyway. 

And there you have it.  She’s too broke to hire a real maid, but her sister will do just fine in a pinch.

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