More B'oken

I tell ya, if it's not messing stuff, it's wrecking stuff.

Tonight, in only the few moments it took me to race into my bedroom, shut the door, strip, toss on jeans and a blouse, grab socks and earrings, and race back out the kitchen, my darling Lillian had climbed on top of the island, grabbed the near-full canister of Grant's formula, removed the lid, and dumped it all overboard. She then hopped down, barefooted, and played with the "snow." When I realized what she'd done, I kind of freaked out and yelled. Loudly!

She simply looked up, smiled, and said "b'oken milk." She then scooped some up and explored the feeling of it pouring through her fingers. As I stood her up and put her into the sink to wash her feet, in came Breanna. Into the sink she had to go, too.

Once they were cleaned up, I deposited them onto the couch, where they needed to sit until I'd finished sweeping and vacuuming all the powder. From the couch, that's where someone broke the lamp. Both blame each other.

I tell you. Some days. If only I. Grrr. I'm so frustrated I can't even write my frustration in full sentences any more.

Karma gods, if you're doing this as a payback for some of my childhood antics, ok, I call uncle. I get it. Now stop it.