Hold Me Closer, Tony Danza, Count the Headlice on the Highway*
Yesterday, Lana and I were running some errands and picking up a gift for Husband's birthday.
As we were driving out of the mall parking lot, Lana said to me, very seriously, her voice grave as it came to me from the back seat,
"Mommy, I don't like your lies."
Considering that I had just purchased her a pair of monkey shaped earrings and that she and I had been laughing and happily sharing a cookie and cherry slurpee only moments before, I was taken aback.
"What?" I asked.
"I don't like your lies," she said, again, or so I thought.
"What have I lied about?" I asked, incredulously.
"You don't lie about anything, mommy," she answered, sounding confused.
"Then why did you just tell me you don't like my lies?" I asked.
Lana huffed. "I said, I don't WRITE good "Y"s, Mommy. I don't WRITE good "Y"s. When I am writing, you know? My "y"s don't look good."
Oh. Well, that was clear as mud, I guess. But, for the record, I don't see anything at all wrong with her "Y"s...
*Misunderstood song lyrics for Elton John's Tiny Dancer