When the teacher plopped Lily into the back seat during carpool this afternoon, she smiled and gestured toward the oversized granny shorts that my kid was now sporting, which I most assuredly had not dressed her in that morning.
"We had a little... issue with the black paint...hope it comes out! Bye!" Slam.
"Uh...wow, honey, how was your day?" I said into the rearview as I pulled out of the parking lot, watching Lily pick at some dried black paint spatters that streaked her legs up and down like she'd been splashed with tar or...what was it they called it in the Grimms fairy tales? Pitch? I think so. Anyway, she looked up and shook her head, annoyed. "Well. I didn't want to wear these GARDENING shorts," (the oversized dorkified bottoms actually had carrots and tomatoes and other vegetables emblazoned on them)"But I got paint on me."
"It's ok, sweetie. I'm sure it's washable paint. So, did you make an awesome picture, or what?"
"No. No, mom. No, Listen, I wasn't painting. No. See, I got this paint on me because APPARENTLY there was black paint on the bench and I sat down on it, and that's how I got all covered in it." She shook her head with disgust.
Apparently things aren't always what they seem.
The Blizzard of '17
3 days ago