The fable of why daddy shouldn't be left alone with Addie when he's tired

Last Wednesday I went to see Avenue Q with my mom, my aunt and my mother-in-law. It was a bit crude, a bit lewd, and laugh out loud, be embarrassed to be sitting next your mother-in-law, funny.

Us ladies headed out on the town, and left Andy in charge of his little lady. He had just arrived home from a business trip from Chicago, and was beat, but ready for a little daddy-daughter time.

When we arrived home from the theater, the lights were out and the house was quiet. Most of the toys were picked up and the dishes were done. I peeled off my hooker boots (Yep, I wore my hooker boots so I could feel sassy and grown up. By the end of night I just felt uncomfortable and sore. No matter how hard I try, the sweats and flip flops always win.) and prepared to pour a few glasses of wine for the ladies.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught my aunt motioning to my mom and mouthing something.

I quickly looked up.

I gasped.

I ran up the stairs to see if my sweet, loving, watchful husband was awake.

He was, barely. Our conversation went something like this:

Me: Did you have a good night?
Him: Hmmmm? Yeah. She was great.

Me: Did you see what she did to the backdoor?

Him: Uh..What?

Me: The backdoor. The one that is now multicolored and decorated?

Him: I'm getting up.

When my sweet, loving, watchful husband saw our backdoor he was a bit chagrined. He then, very unwisely said:

"She was being so good and playing so quietly. I only napped for about 15 minutes."

The next morning, after a very early wake up call and quick doze on the couch I said to Little Miss Bug:

"Addie? What happened to mommy's back door?"

Which was met with a shocked and horrified WHOA and an confused look on her face while pointing to the door.

That was promptly followed by her scrambling off my lap, crouching over the kitty, shaking her finger and saying:

"KI.TTY! No, Kitty. NO."

The rest of the morning was spent with her cleaning the door (with Gramma and Aunt Janet's help) and lecturing the kitty.

I sat on the couch, sipping coffee, not helping clean, and contemplating how a 21 month old has already learned the necessary art of blame.

As the day went on we found more crayon: on the carpet, on a baseboard, on the back of her rocking chair. In a few of her books, on the window sill, on the arm of the chair. That caused me to contemplate :

1. Was that nap really on 15 minutes long?

2. How freaky sneaky and mischievous is my angel?

3. How lucky I am that crayons are washable?