So lately, my three-year-old daughter Bridget keeps getting attacked…
Just the other day, she was drinking a glass of water when out of nowhere she shrieked and threw the cup down:
“SHARKS in my cup!”
Bridget doesn’t always speak clearly, so I wasn’t sure if I’d heard her right.
“There are sharks in your cup?” I asked.
Bridget peered nervously, and very carefully, inside:
She showed me. There was a lot of ice in the cup. I tried to decide whether ice could look like shark fins if you squinted your eyes and had a wild imagination. Or if it was a mini-world of icebergs with sharks lurking underneath.
“Well, that’s scary,” I told her.
Bridget rolled her eyes.
“Just baby sharks,” she told me, like I was being a total wimp.
Of course, she was already on edge from all the ghost nightmares she’d been having. She’d been screaming “GHOSTS!” at 3 AM, night after night, and I’d run to her room to find both of her arms held up in cartoon shock.
“It’s okay! Did you have a nightmare?”
She’d nod her head and tell me about the ghosts who were trying to “take her.” They were MEAN ghosts. One had a bear head and wouldn’t stop farting in her room.
Which must’ve really added insult to injury. This routine kept up until she finally had a dream about nice ghosts who smelled good.
What a relief after that nasty, farting bear.
And then Santa started menacing our house…
Bridget cut her foot two days in a row while taking a bath with her big sister Brontë.
And I mean, really CUT it… like she left bloody footprints all over the floor after getting out.
Which freaked me out. The cuts were smallish, but bled a lot, and I couldn’t understand how it happened.
I looked the bathtub over, inside and out, never finding anything sharp and finally figuring she must’ve somehow kicked the shower door tracks (since she was being very kicky at the time).
Still, I wasn’t sure:
“How did you cut your foot, Bridget?”
“Santa did it.”
“Santa, like Christmas Santa with reindeer and toys for the kids?”
“YES!” she screamed in persecuted agony. “Santa CUT my FOOT.”
She changed her story when her father came home, though.
When John asked why she had Bandaids on her feet, she explained that Poppa had:
- Crawled into her shoe,
- Crawled into her sock, and
- Bitten her foot until it was bleeding
Which was strange, because she worships her grandpa and begs to go to his house so much I almost find it irritating…
So, I have NO idea why she would blame both the guy who brings her presents every year as well as her grandpa for her bleeding feet, but she absolutely wouldn’t let up.
Maybe it was revenge…
You see, Bridget really likes men with mustaches. Her Poppa has a mustache and he seems to be the measuring stick against which she compares all men. Whenever she sees a guy with a mustache, for example, Bidgie insists he looks just like Poppa. Even when they’re completely different-looking people apart from both having a mustache.
Except my dad inexplicably just shaved his mustache, which did not go down well with my kids, who now say he doesn’t look “right.”
I don’t know if that’s why Bridget started accusing him of crawling into her shoes to bite her feet, but… it did happen at roughly the same time.
The following day, Bridget cut her foot in the bathtub again. This time on her heel, instead of her toe.
I was baffled.
I asked her how she cut her foot and she again insisted that Poppa did it.
“But Poppa is nice, ” I said.
“Yes, Poppa nice. He BITE MY FOOT!”
She seemed outraged. She demanded yet another Mickey Mouse bandaid then appeared to forget about the incident until later that night, when my parents came over to pick up the kids for a visit.
In front of them, I asked Bridget whether Poppa had been crawling into her shoes to bite her feet.
“Psshhh… no,” she said, turning bright pink and smirking. “Psssh…”