Biggy took Lola to the "Halloween store" yesterday to look at costumes and when they returned, she was bawling, and he was, in a somewhat raised voice, telling her to go to her room. Which of course made her blubber even more. Seems his refusal to buy her wax lips had sparked another jag in our little almost-eight-year-old crybaby. The child is not used to not getting her way, was feeling downright traumatized. From her bedroom, Lo mumbled insults at her father as they occurred to her. If she thought of anything really good, she'd shout it between the tears.
I had a meeting with the chief editor of the Chattahoochee Review, thank god, so I got to leave, knowing she'd most likely be asleep when I got home.
When I got back, all was quiet, and this was on our dresser: