My eyes fluttered open at the sounds of someone in my bed. Someone moving, flopping around and pulling at the covers, then settling and quietly sucking on the two middle fingers of her right hand.
“Good morning, Katie Bird,” I mumbled.
“Wook, Mom,” she said, throwing back the duvet, “I got my wiener out.”
“That’s not a wiener, Kate. Boys have wieners…”
“It not a jay-jay. I tell you, I got a wiener, Mom!” She yelled, and with that declaration, she backed that thing up and nearly parked it on my face.
“See? I tell you! Dis a butt crack,” she instructed, using her index finger to illustrate her point, “And dis a wiener. Silly,” she said, gazing at me through her legs. Even in her upside down position, I could tell from her furrowed brows that she was shocked at my level of ignorance.
I recoiled and attempted to recall the date of Kate’s last bath. It was on Monday.
“You need a bath, Kate. Your wiener stinks.”
“Step off. STEP.OFF!” she hollered. “I want you to *weave now.”
“This is my bed.”
“I wanna watch *Clipbird,” she said.
I sighed, threw back the duvet and rolled out of bed because sometimes it is, in fact, much easier to leave than it is to hang around and wage battle with Kate. As I walked toward the bathroom, she hurled one last insult at me. Evidently the worst, most threatening thing a pre-preschooler can come up with.
“I gonna poop on your bed. I a doggie you know.”
Motherhood is so glamorous.