They got to her.
My girl adores this trio of little men in her life, this trio that she has simply and appropriately dubbed, "The Brothers". In her 3-year old speak, however, it sounds more like, "The Bruvvers".
She is all girl. All pink and frilly and a princess wannabe. She cannot have too many hair bows, too many accessories, too many frills. She begs me weekly to paint her toes another bright color, and her favorite aisles at Target are "the pink and purple rows", the aisles that house dolls and Barbies and anything girlie.
However, she is no shrinking violet. No priss. No wuss. This girl can hang with the boys. She can walk up to any of The Brothers' friends, no matter how much older they are than she is, and strike up a conversation without fear. She can dig in the dirt and look for worms and splash in the mud, sometimes while wearing a pretty sundress and hair bow. For added panache, of course.
I wish I was more like my daughter. I wish I had some of her moxie. Her fearlessness.
But these boys finally got to her, and it all has to do with, once again, their...ahem...protective cups.
What? You're not sick of this topic yet?
I didn't think so.
I promise this is the last time I will speak of the humble and oh-so-useful protective cup.
If you read my entry from a few weeks ago, I enlightened you on my boys' inability to put their stuff away where it belongs, specifically their cups. If you haven't read it yet, click here.
Back to my girl, and how these boys corrupted her.
A recent morning, I was rushing around in my usual morning way, getting breakfast on the table, and
"I can't find my Crocs, Mooommmm," she wailed.
It's not like we have a basket in our mudroom specifically designated only for Crocs or anything. It's not like it's big and wide, and fits the Crocs perfectly, making said Croc retrieval easy. No matter, the Crocs rarely end up in this basket, because as you know, these children o' mine struggle with the theory that, "There's a place for everything, and everything in its place."
Just like they think the perfect place for a protective cup is on the kitchen table. Or the couch. Or the pantry. Or my nightstand. Yes, my nightstand. Don't ask.
I digress. Back to my frustrated daughter.
"I'll help you find them in a second. Just let me finish this," I said, as her whining increased in volume, and she was oblivious to my requests. Somebody woke up on the wrong side of her "big girl" bed that morning, and it wasn't me.
Not wanting to listen to the whines of a toddler, I picked her up, and rested her on my hip while I finished up my morning kitchen chores.
It was at that moment, as I placed her on my hip, that I felt a hard plastic thump on my hip bone.
My sweet, little wannabe princess, wearing fairy wings and pink plaid shorts, was also wearing a cup belonging to one of The Brothers.
This is a new one. Even for me.
"Sweetie, what are you wearing?!?" I managed to ask through my laughter, even thought I knew exactly what she was wearing. I just wanted to hear it out of her mouth.
She looked at me, and said with total confidence, as if it's perfectly normal for a 3-year old girl in pink plaid shorts and sparkly fairy wings to being wearing protective gear for boy body parts that she does not have, "It's The Bruvver's cup."
As she saw me laughing, and she realized that what she had done was funny, she giggled as she held the cup up to me and said, "See?" Then, without skipping a beat she said, "It hurts," and threw it down on the ground with a decisive thump.
Well, duh, my daughter. Duh.
I guess she can check that off her list of mysterious things that The Brothers do in which she will no longer want to participate.
Boys, listen up. This is what happens when your leave your stuff lying around.
Little sisters find it.