Remember when you were 20-something and you'd go out with friends and it wasn't too late a night but you shared several pitchers and managed to get back home and into bed by 1a or so and then there was always some family down the block that couldn't control their kids and at 0-dark-30 one of the brats would be yelling. Out in the yard!
We're that family now.
Scene, this morning, 5.35a. I've been trying for 20 minutes to make scones. This usually takes 10 minutes, but this morning I've got "help" so it's dragging on. I've just added the cream to the flour when I notice Lucy pooping and move to go get it, leaving the girls standing side by side on their small chairs, peering into the bowl of congealing scone mix:
me (outside, looking for dog poop): rekenfreckingsheckin....
K (standing in the now-open kitchen doorway, yelling): Daddy! Daddy!!
me (loud whisper from across the yard): What K?
K (not hearing me, or not caring): Daddy!!! (voice echoing off the neighboring houses)
me (hurrying towards her): What. Is. It?
K (yelling): There's pee on the floor!
me (hurrying now to the door and dropping the bag of dog poop): What? Where?
K (pointing): There.
L (pointing): Thea!
me (seeing nothing besides the normal-dirty floor): Where?
K (exhasperated): There! There Daddy!! Where it's yellow.
L: Thea Daddy. It yellow!
me (still not seeing anything and bending closer): There's nothing there!
K: Yeah there is.
L: Yeah there ith Daddy!!
me: Whose pee? You're both in diapers.
K: I don't know, but there is!
L: Thea is Daddy!
For the record: there wasn't anything on the floor except the normal dirt, but the neighbors all had a chance to share in our discussion. It's nice it was a pretty morning. They probably should try to get to bed earlier.