Spaghetti and Slingshots

I had the pleasure tonight of observing Chloe, Sophie and my husband eat pasta.  The girls really are their father’s daughters.  At one point during the meal the three them had mouthfuls of the pasta hanging from their mouths.  Simultaneously.

They were truly a sight for sore eyes.  And I lost the small appetite that I had while watching them eat like piglets.  Sophie was the messiest of the gang, leaving trails of shredded mozzarella all over her placemat and on her chair.  Chloe was a close second.  And as anyone who knows Papa knows, his plate bore no trace of having had any food on it at all.

The three peas in a pod are now preparing for bedtime by flinging a headband around like a slingshot.  This is Chloe’s new trick, taught to her by her dear old dad.  Sophie just missed my head by a centimeter.  Someone is going to get hurt.  And I will send my husband back to France if it’s one of the girls.  He’s a bad influence.  No wonder the girls missed him so much when he was in Dallas this week.  I run this house like an army drill sergeant when he’s not around.  There are no slingshots under my watch.

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