Hormonal

On the hot mess continuum, this afternoon Lyla was somewhere between chili pepper and blowtorch. Had someone shot off a heat-seeking missile in the vicinity, it would have blown us off the road. Here she is looking relatively calm due to poor photographic timing, not calmness.


"Upstairs down slide! Upstairs down slide!"

"Are you mad because you can't go up the stairs and down the slide right now?"

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

"Do you like to play on the playground at school?"

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

"Do you--"

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

"--like to swing, too?"

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! Yeah."

"Well, maybe later we can--"

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

Then she noticed I was taking her picture (at a red light, duh) and flipped from rage to silly faster than her mother on her most hormonal-preggers days.



Of course, then she said this: "Dada, ammal phone!"

(Julie has a barn animal app on her phone. I don't.)

"Dada, ammal phone! Ammal phone! AMMAL PHONE!"

"Lyla, I don't--"

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"


Hey, I know! Let's have another kid!