Julianna whined all the way home from Illinois. She was heartily sick of the car seat. (Who can blame her?)
As soon as we got home, she tore across the floor and went down to the basement to bang on the piano. When her daddy brought her back up and got her diaper (and clothes) changed, she went straight for the Christmas tree.
Now bear in mind, we spent four days in a tiny house with a very touch-friendly Christmas tree (by that I mean one that didn’t have pointy needles). Did she ever touch the tree? Nope. Not once.
So as I sat on the computer, trying to sift through three hundred plus spams, she prowled back and fortharound the tree…south to north, north to south, south to north, north to south…not touching, just stopping every so often to look up suspiciously. Then, back to pacing on all fours. This went on for at least five minutes before she decided Mommy was fooled, and she disappeared behind the tree…and grabbed an ornament.
Ah, Julianna, you are destined to be a Master Spy. I just know it.
I wanted to reflect on the difference between writing fiction about love and love in reality, but I think I need to focus on my family…and unpacking…and folding laundry…tonight.