Mia, age three, born and raised in the South, has begun speaking with a British accent. She has fallen in love with Angelina Ballerina, and at first the Angelina voice was pretty cute but now it is annoying as all hell. Not the overall accent so much as the fact that whining with a British accent is twenty times more annoying than whining with an American accent. I believe I may have discovered the underlying cause of the collapse of the British Empire.
Yesterday, as we were grooving along at the local library storytime, Mia, exhibiting skillful sleight of hand far beyond her years, pulled two breast pads out from under her dress, stuck them on top of her head, and kept right on dancing. The moral of this story is that if you allow your preschooler to play with your old and unused box of breast pads you should definitely confiscate the evidence before leaving the house.
Finally, I spent a large portion of yesterday afternoon trying to reassemble a shattered night light light bulb to insure that I had all the bits and none were hiding in the depths of Mia's carpet. I was unsuccessful as I later discovered a large-ish chunk seconds before Owen was successful in his attempts to capture and eat it, which would certainly have ruined our evening. Children would be much easier to raise if they didn't devote so much of their substantial energies to trying to do themselves a mischief.
That is all.