the lazy dog

This morning, my not-quite-four-year-old, sat on her bed having a conversation with her “husband”, not quite imaginary and not quite alive. Her conversation started politely enough but soon a full-on spousal spat ensued.

“Shawn, you lazy dog,” she snapped. Fair enough, Shawn is in fact a 2 foot, pink and purple dog who doesn’t contribute much to the family. “You’re wasting my time.” She yelled.

Shawn sat quietly, obviously giving much consideration to her accusations and what his reply might be.

Finally in exasperation, she huffed, then sighed deeply, threw her hands in the air and stormed out of the room.

I held in both my laughter and my dismay. Where did she come up with that? Me? To my knowledge, I have never called B a lazy dog. I’ve never told him he’s wasting my time. I may have thrown my hands in the air, and I have most likely stormed out of a room or two.

After lunch, I found Shawn sitting in my desk chair, perched over the computer keyboard. He was browsing The two of them have yet to reconcile.