This morning I got a little repreive from the hauling of toddler tumescence and the stuffing of same into a worn carseat against her tiny will, when Jed took her away so I could get the last of my things ready and packed into the car.
Since they were nowhere to be found as I reved the engine, I went around the house to look for them.
She was carrying a box of Crayons (c. 1970) from the crane truck into the barn.
"Come on, it's time to go," I said.
"No, Mom, I'm working," she calls back as she disappears into the barn, her father following close behind with a cardboard box filled with old telephones.
"Pay no attention to the man with the junk," he proclaims.
After I finally wrestle her away from the work of collecting, and we roll out of the driveway, the kvetching begins.
"Momma, Daddy is bad."
"Why would you say that, honey. He's not bad."
"It's just that he's not easy to please."
** I don't know where this came from, but I do know it makes her ready for office work in corporate America.