So I return from fetching a fresh cup of coffee to find the kid standing ON the chair at my writing desk, preliminary to knocking it over (landing quite deftly on her feet, but never mind that bit). I yelp in outrage. "Hey!"
"What?" she inquires innocently, having safely landed.
"That is my writing chair! My sacred iconographic writing chair!" I snatch it up and make sure it is okay. "I have sat in this chair to write since I was fifteen years old! D'you know what would happen if this chair broke?"
"Umm...we would have to buy another one?"
"No! I would have to become an ACCOUNTANT!" I give her a fierce glare.
She studies me. "You're messing, right?"
"Maybe," I say. "A bit." I adjust my chair and sit in it. Then I give her a fierce sidelong look. "But NEVER do that again."
She lets out her breath, patiently. "You're weird, Mom."
Shit. And it only took until she was eight.
6 hours ago