This morning after dealing with the Boy's daily fit about the condition of the bathroom--God save him, he's a neat freak in a family of slobs--I turned around to walk down the hall to get my own shower. My eyes rested on the magazine boxes under the bookshelves mounted on the wall. Their white surfaces were newly adorned with swirling lines of pencil.
I called the Girl to me, pointed, asked Did you do this?
She shook her head. No.
I knew better. The Boy has never created art quite like this, while the Girl has developed the method to a high art. We call it Scribble Scrabble. I shook my head. You're lying to me again. Come on, now, you know better than that.
If I did do it, it was in the middle of the night when I didn't know any better. I was sleepwalking.
What can be said to this? I was exhausted from dealing with her brother. You will clean this up tomorrow. and sent her off to brush teeth and hair and gather things into her backpack for school.
But you know, the insanity defense hasn't worked since Hinckley.