Sage comes running, screaming and crying. My mommy adrenaline kicks into overdrive. My baby was clearly injured. Did she get stung by a bee? Bit by a spider? She flapped her arms in a panic before finally holding out her hand, her voice in a pitch usually reserved for stuff like one of her fingers getting chopped off.
But all five were there. There was no visible mark on her hand at all.
And then I deciphered some words through the shrieking.
It was, well, stunning. Because my daughter, who is not afraid to climb to the top of the highest ladders or go down the tallest slides at the park, has finally met the most terrifying object on the planet.
A piece of lint.
That's right. All the hysteria was over a small bit of fuzz that had stuck to her hand.
Apparently, Lint has the ability to mortally wound her. At least, that's what she thinks.
We have no shortage of lint, dog hair or my hair floating around this house. Why this has become an issue for her I cannot imagine.
We also apparently have no limit on drama around here, either.
Now Sawyer is getting into the act, waving his hand around and sounding the alarm if he gets something on him. Only homie don't play that. I just tell him to get it off, and he when he realizes he's not going to get any attention, he removes it.
Sage was at it again this morning, sobbing because of a PIECE OF LINT, MOMMY! A PIECE OF LIIIIIIIIIIIINT on her hand. After I removed the horrific, evil, vile, injurious hair, Sage calmed down. Then she summed it all up thusly:
"I'm just being silly, Mommy."
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