Touche

Confession time.

Back when my girls were younger, the noisy, plastic toys would grate my nerves. You know the ones- that sing-songy tune playing over and over, the obnoxious "mama, mama" from the doll. So, when those plastic headache-inducing toys would thankfully "run out of batteries" (and yes, from time to time, this did involve surreptitious tinkering) I was overjoyed. The girls would ask me to replace the batteries, and I would shrug and say, "Oh, that is something Dad has to do. Let's wait until he gets home, and you can ask him to change the batteries."

This strategy worked very well. It meant that most obnoxious toys became relegated to the basement. And by the time Curtis got home, the toys were typically forgotten. In fact, to this day, the girls think battery-changing is a task that can be tackled only by Dad.

Now, that clever little strategy has come back to bite me. Today, Lucy and Mary wanted to build bunk beds out of their existing doll beds, and I offered that I could drill some holes and put pegs in to accomplish the goal.

Lucy looked me straight in the eye and said, "C'mon Mom. We're gonna wait for Dad. You can't even change batteries."

Touche.