A letter to my youngest son.

Dear Logan;

In the future could you please tell me the truth when:

a) I use my loud, firm, mommy voice to ask you and your brother why there are red marks all over the wood floor, leading into our bedroom, and you know that red chair

leaves marks, and what were you doing with that red chair in our bedroom anyway?

b) Ten minutes later I ask what all the red smeared all over the bathroom floor is,

and did you get into my lipstick again, because I still have the evidence from last time

and if it's not lipstick, WHAT is it?

Because instead of my it's-the-end-of-the-day and you-know-better and you've-GOT-to-be-kidding-me-this-paint-is-NEVER-going-to-come-off voice, I would use my oh-baby-are-you-okay voice. If you would have just told me you somehow sliced a couple of layers of skin off two toes, and that is actually BLOOD all over the place.

However, my sympathy does go down a bit when you then decide "it hurts, and I'm going to milk it for all it's worth." But nice try....