When She Cries Over A Popsicle, You Know She's Tired

It's going to be an early to bed night, I do declare.
Caroline, my even keeled, non dramatic, go with the flow child, cried over a popsicle this evening. She wanted a swirly popsicle, like Rachel, but she opened a plain purple one instead.

She HATES purple popsicles.

Or so she claims.
If it's true, this is news to me.

I looked at my pitiful child with her puffy eyes, snotty nose and red, tear stained face and said very matter of factly,
"You're crying over a popsicle!?!"

That was all I could say.

We haven't dealt with this type of meltdown in a very long time.
I'm glad it's been a long time because I find these whiny outbursts to be utterly ridiculous.
And totally unnecessary.

So, she's going to bed early tonight. Without exception.

Hopefully.

Maybe.

I talk big on this blog, but in reality, I have trouble following through. I get side tracked very easily and lose track of time. Caroline, the ever vigilant time keeper, quite conveniently misplaces her keen ability to tell time in the evenings, as well. Sneaky.

But not tonight.

That is, of course, if I can find her.

She's probably out wandering the neighborhood, befriending every dog in sight, with swirly popsicle stains on her face.

And shirt.

And shorts.

And there is probably some in her hair, too.