Yesterday, Ladybug came home with star shaped sticky notes. She always goes bananas for sticky notes, and they typically last for two days, when we’re lucky. Needless to say, yesterday, we were covered in sticky notes. Lids, arms, cheeks, notebooks, the computer – it was sticky note mania in our house.
Finally, she takes the remaining pad of sticky notes and puts them on her chest, and I mentally freak. “Does my kid know about pasties? What the hell has she been watching? Friggin internet! The hell is going on here?!” I’m shocked, awed, appalled and disgusted. How did I allow my sweet child to be exposed to the insidious entity that is the life of the pole dancer. Then, she utters five simple words. Words that cause me to question every decision I have made, from birth until this very moment.
“Look Mommy! I’m the sheriff!”
Most disturbing is the fact that her being a sheriff never even dawned on me.
Really kid? You’re a sheriff? Well, guess what, Sunshine? Your mom’s a whore.