We're In Trouble Now

Elena has pretty much mastered the daytime potty routine and now we're working on her overnight routine. Therefore, a dry pull-up in the morning is rewarded with chocolate milk during breakfast. Yesterday, Karen could hear Elena moving around in her room when she initially woke up. She emerged several minutes later, proclaimed that her pull-up was dry and demanded chocolate milk. Karen peeked into her room and saw that the closet door which holds the pull-up supply was open; there was also a freshly soiled pull-up in the garbage.

Fast forward a day. This morning Karen dropped Elena off for day at Teaching World (E goes once/week). About an hour later, Miss Jamie texted me to say that she thought Elena had pinkeye. Karen and I were both skeptical, but then Miss Jamie sent me this picture. Karen soon picked her up and grabbed some eye drops.

I came home early so that Karen could go shopping. After she outlined dinner plans, she mentioned that Elena would need more eye drops before dinner. When I asked how to administer them, she told me to sit on top of her, pin her arms down with my legs, and use my fingers to pry her eyes open.

The resulting mental image brought about some very traumatic memories from my past. You see, my brother is 4 years older than me and loved nothing more than to torture me as a child. His signature move was to sit on my chest, put his knees on my arms and let spit hang from his mouth until it almost hit my face. He would then suck the spit back up into his mouth just before is splattered on my face. Sometimes he waited too long and then it was SPLAT!

When the time came for me to give Elena her eye drops, they were nowhere to be found.She watched  as I scoured the house in search of them. At some point she began following me around, periodically mumbling things like, "My eyes are all better. I don't need it anymore. It's all gone. I don't like the drops!" It finally clicked. I said, "Sprout, do you know where the eye drops are?" Without making eye contact she half-nodded. "Did you hide them?" This was followed by the slightest of nods. "Where are they?" I asked. Her mumblings continued. I started rifling through trash cans and drawers. Later, she finally relented and showed me where the bottle was hidden: in the bathroom drawer with her nail polish.

Given the scars my brother burned into my memory with the "spit game," I don't blame Elena for hiding the drops. Heck, one of my best childhood memories involves a direct hit to my brother's "junk" during the "spit game." What really troubles me is that she is three. What will become of this game once she has a decade of experience under her belt?