Little children are bipolar. All little children. They like you if you give them chocolate. They love you if you buy them a Polly Pocket, or, if a boy, a toy rocket. They worship you if you construct a life-size race car in the backyard. This becomes inconceivable when available materials comprise string and construction paper. Little children do not comprehend impossibilities. And then they become bipolar. Their disappointment and bipolarity manifest through crying, hitting, kicking, name-calling, and launching forks at your head. Oftentimes children pirouette into The Evil One lacking a determinant.
The five-year-old's class terminates at two in the afternoon. The seven-year-old at the same school gets out at three o'clock. The school purposefully does this to abuse me. A plastic Barbie school has more available parking than a private, fifteen-thousand-a-year Hogwarts fortress that requires specific underwear and determines sweets in lunches illegal.
At two o'clock, I bribed the five-year-old with a cookie to not pretend to be dead when I picked her up instead of her mom. By two forty-five, we had played Secret Garden, tic-tac-toe, and let's-sit-on-Kara.
At two-fifty she molested my legs. At two fifty-three she licked my cheek. At two fifty-five we played a game I invented called Annihilate Kara's One Ab. She sat on my lap, my arms around her waist, and pitched her body in any direction. My ab righted us. She repeated, giggling and shrieking, "Again, again," in a school that demands plastic bags in lunches instead of saran wrap. At two fifty-eight she spat in my face.
At three-ten, the seven-year-old promenaded down the stairs pretending she wore heels. When she saw that the five-year-old hadn't brought her gym bag down to bring home, God's Assistant pranced upstairs to get her sister's gym bag. The seven-year-old presented it to her sister with a smile. Instead of displaying gratitude, the five-year-old headbutted her.
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