“Miss Fart Cloud it is,” I said. I grabbed a wet wipe. “Now, give me the cat.”
Reality: I walked into the playroom to find her using a tube of Mrs. Wellington-Calloway’s “Limited Edition Himalayan Saffron Night Cream” (retail: $900) to draw a unicorn on the cat. The cat, Mr. Snuggles, looked less like a pet and more like a jaundiced gremlin.
“You can keep the name Penelope. I’ll share.”
And then, as they were leaving for Bali again (this time for “sound bath immersion”), she tugged my sleeve.
The night before her birthday, I found her in the attic. She had a flashlight and a purple gel pen. She was scribbling furiously. When she finished, she locked the useless lock, shoved the diary behind a loose brick, and came downstairs.
I sat down on the floor next to her. The headphones came off. This was not a noise-canceling situation. This was a sit-in-the-mud situation.
Ah. There it was. The real story.