Notes to self.

I am stingy with the heat.  Let’s just begin with that fact.  I hate, hate, hate paying for heat.  Now, I will gladly pay to not sweat while I sleep but heat?  Not so much.  The littles are bundled up every night for bed.  Ella is anyway.

She has returned to her basement bedroom.  I don’t know why.  I think it’s because I changed the sheets.  She said that her old kitty sheets gave her bad dreams.  Mkay.  So she sleeps in footie jammies with two quilts.  In the early, butt-crack of dawn I have to literally dig her out from under the covers.  And then she complains that she’s cold and her clothes are cold and the house is cold, etc. 

Sidenote:  I had a friend once whose mom used to “warm up” her clothes in the dryer before she got them up for school.  There are several things wrong with that thought.  My friend was high school age and should have been responsible for her own waking and, hi, my mom NEVER thought to make our clothes warm in the morning.  My mom barely cracked her eyelids if at all when we left for school.  In her defense, the restaurant didn’t close until 11 so her schedule was different from most mothers.  But still…

So Ella and I are talking over breakfast this morning.  Lucky Charms.  (Who has two thumbs and is the best mom at breakfast time?)(Me.) 

My dainty angel daughter, my fairy princess, rips the longest fart I’ve ever heard escape her body.  And I’ve heard a lot.

Did that warm you up?

“My fart?”  She giggles.

Yeah.  Did that warm you up?

“It sure did.  I’m not cold anymore.  Farts are like fire coming out my butt!”

And with that, she proves herself to be her father’s child.

Because that, totally, did not come from me.