Dearest blog,
Let me set the stage for you:
So yesterday was my darling husband’s birthday, and we were planning on coming home and watching The Warriors. (We didn’t because I’m in migraine country, but that’s a story for another time.) So on our way home, I’m explaining to our daughter that when we get home, it’ll be her bed time because we want to watch a movie that’s bad for her to watch. (Which is what hubs tells her when he watches horror movies at night and she tries to join him)
Then this happens:
Her: Can we stay downstairs instead?
Me: Why?
Her: So we can watch a movie that’s good for me, like the one with the dinosaurs.
Me: What movie with the … oh god.
We’ve watched two movies with dinosaurs in it lately. The very end of Jurassic Park, and thankfully she missed the severed Samuel L. Jackson arm (spoiler alert, sorry) and:
Luckily we went upstairs right when the asshole pictured above just pulled a Paul Reiser, so she missed a good deal of the movie, but I still feel like a bad mom. And like I should just set up a trust for her therapy now.
Either that, or I’ve ensured that she’ll be the scientist who creates genetically modified dinosaurs.
Is it bad I’m hoping for the second one? At least then she’s accomplished something.
Oh well, either way it’s just another case in the files of:
