My eleven-year-old daughter has spent the better part of the past six months in some sort of pre-adolescent fog. Any questions asked of her took several minutes to filter into her brain, and responses, if indeed any were forthcoming, took just as long to come out. There were several instances when she forgot what she was doing mid-conversation. Communication was excruciating. Happily, it was just a phase. Her quick wit has returned. She gets that from her dad: I don’t think of witty comebacks until the next day, at least.
Her prankster ways reappeared at the same time, and I have been finding these little notes in various surprising places. This one was stuck to the passenger side vanity mirror in my husband’s truck.
The notes were the final straw for my gray hair. L’oreal Deeply Brown is my new best friend.