When she woke up this morning, Genevieve immediately commented on how she could smell fingernail polish in the kitchen.
“Did someone do nails in here? While I was sleeping? Who did nails?!”
I admit, “There was a bit of an accident last night. One of the nail polish bottles fell in the bathroom and we had to grab paper towels and wipe–”
“What color broke?” she demands to know.
“The orange one,” I say meekly.
“THAT’S MY FAVORITE NAIL POLISH COLOR!”
“I know. I’m so sorry.”
“You broke it?” she asks.
“Well….yes. (Then, in a burst of immaturity…) But Daddy must have left it too close to the edge when he painted your nails last. The bottle of nail polish was practically teetering on the edge and then it fell — ”
Gigi stomps off to our bathroom, where Scott is getting ready for work. I overhear our four-year-old scolding her father about the nail polish disaster of the night before.
“Mommy says you broke the orange nail polish. Why did you break it? Why did you put it on the edge?”
“I DIDN’T break it. SHE did. She was probably moving too fast and she pushed the bottle off of the shelf by accident,” Scott tries to explain.
“Next time you can’t put it on the edge.” Pause. “We need to buy more orange for the next time you do my nails.”
“There are plenty of other colors up there that we can use,” Scott says.
“Are they on the edge?” Genevieve asks.