Then we head downstairs to the bathroom that she shares with me in the basement where she brushes her teeth while I braid her hair. Did we forget her pajamas? Nope. Because she has taken to sleeping in her clothing lately—she specifically asks me if she can just sleep in what she is wearing and this is one instance when my hardass Southern parenting was like, “Um, Heather? You do this every night. You are modeling this behavior.” Yeah, except that I’m usually in super comfy yoga pants that double as pajama pants anyway, so I always answer, “You want to sleep in your own stink, fine by me, kid.” Turns out she wants this. Whatever. You do you, hobo.
Then we head to her bedroom, climb under the covers, and she reads to herself for 20-30 minutes. I used to read to her but that suddenly stopped about a year ago when she realized she could read faster and with better-sounding voices than I could. God! It only took eight years of me purposefully reading as monotonously as possible to get out of that gig! Unfortunately, this means she has inherited one of my most dominant genes with the scientific name of Last One In The Room To Know They Are Being Swindled.
She’s been reading a book called Wonder which I guess they made into a movie—I’m supposed to be up on all this shit except I am busy raising two kids by myself, working full time and making sure that assholes around Salt Lake City stop dethroning me from my mayorships:
