Daughter /ˈdôtər/. Noun: a female offspring, known to produce excessive gray hairs and worry wrinkles, and inspire nightmares on a regular basis FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.
Yep, that’s my daughter.
At the playground, she doesn’t seem to understand that she can’t just waltz off a 2 foot step.
To make matters worse, after discovering this spin-ny thing at our new playground she’s pretty sure she can fly.
She’s not much better in the house either. Since she first learned to crawl she can’t pass by an outlet without sticking her finger in it.
And now that she is older and so much wiser, she loves to pull those plastic covers out…and put them back in. Over and over.
Basically, she’s always looking for trouble.
And when she finds it, it’s serious stuff – like poisonous chemicals, risk of electrocution or serious head trauma (see above for photographic evidence). So I scold her in my “I’m-so-serious-my-voice-is-three-octaves-lower-DO-NOT-TOUCH-THAT-EVER-AGAIN” tone. It’s so potent my 3 year-old in the other room starts whimpering from the ferocity of my voice. But Chloe? This is her reaction:
I know she loves me, yet most of her daily effort seems to be directed towards ensuring my early demise.
What am I supposed to do with this child? I cannot find a copy of “What to Expect When You’re Child is the Tasmanian Devil” anywhere.