Dear Laney,
Sometimes something happens at our house, and it takes me a few days to decide if I should put it on the blog, because maybe it toes the line between being charming and being fodder for a call to Child Protective Services. This is one of those stories.
Grandmas, put the phone down.
At halftime of the Super Bowl, I took off your outfit and diaper so I could change you into your pajamas. While I was looking around for a new diaper, you hopped down from the bed and took off running, completely naked. You came back into the bedroom moments later, carrying your pink snow boots. We all know how much you love the naked-in-snow-boots look, so I put your boots on. Why the heck not? It's not like the Super Bowl was all that interesting; The Laney Show was guaranteed to be better.
Then you ran to the front door - still naked - and insisted that you be allowed to go outside. I'd say "no," you'd pound on the door and wail, etc. So I said, "Thor, take this baby outside for two seconds and show her why going outside naked in the winter in Montana is a bad idea."*
So your dad picked you up and walked outside, and I turned around to organize our leftovers in the fridge. Moments later, I heard the front door open, and I hollered out, "It was too cold out there, huh?" And your dad said "Oh, she's still out there."
Like one of those Jesus Lizards who run so fast they're able to haul ass across the surface of water, I ran outside to get you. Probably looked a little like this:
...and let me tell you, when I got you inside you were MAD. Not because you were COLD, but because you were INSIDE.
Because I had fooled with your emotions, I figured I owed you one, so I put you in some respectable winter clothes, and your dad took you out for a night hike in the snow.
Eh, it was probably more entertaining than the Black Eyed Peas.
Love,
Mom
*In retrospect, this makes as much sense as when I say, "But Ella, trust me - you don't like peach cobbler."
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