Chelle was just talking about the faerie at her house last week, and I giggled remembering the “it wasn’t me” refrains when I was growing up. The “not me” phenomenon has come back to haunt me. We now have a goost at our house—commonly referred to as a ghost by those over the age of three.
The Goost stole the baby’s pacifier. The Goost kept her from taking a nap. The Goost colored on the kitchen floor, and The Goost spilled milk on the kitchen table. So far, The Goost appears to be a friendly—albeit messy—ghost, but we’re not taking any chances. Stacia is becoming an expert Goost-shooer to keep it is safe for Brenia to go to the potty. That process is hard enough on its own.
If The Goost sticks around much longer, we just may need a bigger house. We’re starting to get a bit cramped as it is.
Just don’t let the girls see Drop Dead Fred until they are much, much older. We spent about a month when Tim was around 4 with everything being blamed on Drop Dead Fred.
Is the pacifier the only thing the Goost has done to Lorelai? Tim was nearly 5 when Nate was born and he was honest about everything he was doing. He’d pull his pacifier and toss it across the room. If he was sleeping in the basinet or baby basket, Tim would sneek up and pinch his leg so he would wake up crying. He didn’t blame anyone, he simply said, “I don’t like him and I want him to not like it here so he goes away!” Now that Tim is 12 he blames his whole dislike of his baby brother has stemming from coming to see him while we were still in the hospital and Nate having cried the instant we put him in his arms. *shaking head* Kids…