Having kids sometimes makes you feel just one short step away from being hauled off by some sort of authorities.
There was the time Tillie walked happily out of Wal-Mart, following my loaded cart, with something we didn't pay for clutched in her hand. Hey, I didn't see her pick it up, honest.
There was the time Francie, age four or so, decided to go to the park that was about half a mile away, all by herself, and see if Mommy was there. She was picked up by the police--a good thing that they picked her up, of course, but a bit difficult for us to explain. (Our mental state when the police showed up: Fred looking around and saying "She's GOT to be here, where would she go?" and me shrieking "We've looked everywhere and she's not here, we have to search the neighborhood!" while simultaneously looking in every small space in the house I could think of in case she had trapped herself somewhere and was running out of air at that very moment.)
Today it's the cell phone. Francie likes to take pictures with it. She'll snap whatever she can before I notice and snatch it away, hollering something incoherent about how she KNOWS not to touch Mommy's cell phone.
She just took some lovely shots of Lillie, age six, whose preferred attire for lounging at home consists solely of a pair of princess undies. So, on my phone I had all these blurry photos of Lillie in her underwear, sprawled fetchingly across various pieces of living room furniture.
Geez, kids, do you WANT Mommy hauled off? Can we say, "foster home?" It looks like I get my kicks by taking pornographic photos of small children. (Which I don't, I don't, I don't!)
I deleted everything as fast as I could. I can't seem to keep clothes on Lillie, so I guess I'll hide the phone.
