The smallest chick is frightening me. I'd love to be sitting here, typing, "Oh, little Clairey has a thing for babydolls and butterflies!" But, no, it's blood. The wee one has a thing for blood. ANY blood--her blood, the other chick's blood, my blood... The minute someone says, "OUCH!" Clairey's all in your face, asking, "You got bluud?" It's creepy, man. It makes me think I'm raising some kind of weirdo kid. Like, she's going to be the one in middle school that wants to dissect the frogs, because she's hoping they'll bleed. She's going to be all, "C'mon, man! Let's make it BLEED!" Ew. What's next? Kicking puppies? I can't take it.
She came running out of her room with her finger stuck in a cardboard box--I don't even know how to begin explaining that, so I'm not even going to try--so, anyways, her finger's stuck in the box. She was doing that two-year-old whimpering act, so after looking at her with total amusement, I released her finger from the clutches of the evil box. She looks at her finger, looks at me, and says, "My got bluud!" Of course, there is no blood. There's not even a scratch on her finger, but she's crying, "My got bluud! My got bluud!"
"You DON'T have blood."
"Yes! My got bluud!"
"Look. No blood."
She looks.
"Oh. No bluud?"
"No blood."
Then came a scream from the bedroom--Jenna hit her head on the bed. What can I say? The chicks are accident prone. Claire runs over to Jenna: "You got bluud?" Jeesh. What is it with this kid?
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