That's what K told me today. (After getting out of the shower, she modified her assessment and told me that I was a "big wet ogre." We've been watching a lot of Shrek lately.)
The other day my new (temporary!) charges (seven and ten) played a rousing game of "guess how old Karinya is" and finally decided that I was forty. I'm twenty-seven.
We made it out of February alive, but March hasn't exactly brought the warm, springtime-y reprieve that we were counting on, either. We spent Friday morning glued to the TV watching for a school closing that didn't come, then Saturday's bad roads meant that we were mostly stuck at home and that Bob's journey to a memorial service for a friend took him twice as long to get to (and return from).
Sunday we were just about to load the crew up into the minivan (I'm temporarily driving a minivan, guys. A MINIVAN!) to go to the movies and get the heck out of the house when the seven year old announced "I think I'm going to throwup."
And then did.
It's Monday afternoon now and she's still going strong.
K is on the floor, coloring her fingernails with a black marker (...because she's goth now?) and I don't even care.
I am a big mean ogre. Watch out.