I’m reaching for my hairbrush and it’s not where it’s supposed to be. I scan the counter and see nothing so I yell Jane, where’s my hairbrush. She typically walks in, shrugs and then walks away.
Next I’m standing in her bedroom which is littered with expensive clothing that she routinely leaves on the floor to be trampled and I spy my hairbrush on her desk. I know it will be on her desk because the desk is where she does hair and nails, the bed is where she does homework.
I return to the bathroom where my husband is calmly brushing his teeth and tell him that our daughter is beyond sloppy and not allowed in the master suite. No bedroom, no bathroom, no closet. This is when he smirks and says the same thing every time, “It sounds like you live with a teenager.”
Which is not the right answer. The right answer would be him marching in and telling Jane to use her own brush, hang up her clothes and stop living like an animal. I think we know that isn’t going to happen. Let’s face it, the only people on earth who are unafraid of a teenage girl are adult women. More specifically, their mothers.
This morning Mr. G spent five minutes teaching Alexander how to do a bro hug. You know the one where you do the not quite a handshake grab and then a smack on the back?
On the upside the children are getting a phenomenal education, they should land themselves in top tier colleges and then good jobs. There will be plenty of cash for the talk doctor.