
My 6-year-old daughter brought me this picture she drew the other day ... not too long after I had reprimanded her for leaving a mess behind in the living room. I wasn't sure how to react to the words "Mean Momy," but the drawing of me apparently hanging from a tree branch was even more disturbing than the words.
"You think I am a mean mommy?" I asked her. She looked at me with this puzzled look which I took as,"Well, duh. You just yelled at me."
"What am I doing there hanging from the tree?" I went on, not really wanting to hear the answer I expected to hear. However, I couldn't understand why my seemingly sweet baby was wanting me to die a horrible death hanging from a beautiful cherry tree. (So ironic because I love cherries.)
"You're swinging," she said, innocently. Swinging? So, I'm not dead yet. I am lingering and suffering, apparently. She must really hate me.
"And I'm swinging with you," she continues.
Huh?
"It's a tire swing," she points to the drawing. "That's you sitting on the swing holding me. It says: 'Me and Momy.'"
Well, of course, I knew that all along.



















