I was three years old and Katie was trying to get my pillow. And it was mine so I threw her off it. Then she was hysterical and my mom ran in and asked what the heck happened. So, I told her a different version of reality. "Mother, little Katie smacked her arm on the coffee table as she was trying to walk. That klutz." I'm pretty sure she didn't believe me and I still feel kinda guilty. I yanked my sister's arm out of the socket and she had to go to the hospital to, you know, pop it back in.
 |
| so. guilty. |
a) she is in immediate danger or
b) she is deciding whether or not to listen to her tiny excuse of a conscience (which in most instances leads to immediate danger.)
So I sprinted to my bedroom and found her surrounded by ripped up puzzle box cardboard and a princess puzzle in her hands.
"What are you doing Davy?"
"Ummm I was just putting this back in the bag for the kids."
Like h-e-double hockeysticks you were.
A few hours later I found her in there again, back at it. So I asked her for the second time.
"What are you doing Davy?"
"Oh, just trying to take this away from Gianna. No Gianna! Don't take this."
What a little liar. She isn't culpable right? She hasn't hit the age of reason. She sure seems to know what she is doing, though.
Then after dinner, we found a little Santa Clause lying on the kitchen floor missing his tiny foot and his green mittened hand. He was an adorable handless footless Santa. So Daddy asked the obvious perpetrator.
"Davy, do you know what happened to dear Santa Clause?"
"Ummm. I don't know." Then looked down at her guilty hands.
So Daddy asked, "Did you break Santa Clause?"
"Yeah, I did. I dropped him."
Sweet honesty. Music to our ears.
