As I was combing Reid’s hair this morning, she sang me a little song - a ditty, maybe. It went like this:
Mama makes me ouch-y. Mama makes me ouch-y.
It featured a few somewhat random vocalizations. I think that a music teacher would call it synchopated, I think. I told Reid that I liked her song and she informed me most emphatically that I was *not* supposed to like it.

When I told Ken about the song  and said that I especially liked the “ows” and “ennhs” that punctuated the song, Reid had to correct me. “Those weren’t part of the song. They were when you hurted me.” I feigned surprise. It seems to me that Ken has always suspected that I enjoy hurting Reid when I comb her hair. This morning wasn’t a revelation.

I don’t really enjoy inflicting pain, you all know that, right? I just think Reid adds a bit more drama to the experience than is absolutely necessary. I get my hair brushed without crying. Now. (Who knows what Grandma Joyce would say about me as a kid?) Reid will, too, one day.