Toys vs. Not Toys

Last night Fiona showed off her height by retrieving a bottle of medicine from the kitchen shelf we've been keeping it on the past two nights. I knew she wasn't going to like it, but I swung into action right away and snatched it out of her hand. She started screaming (of course), and I told her I was very sorry but medicine is not a toy.

By now tantrums are fairly predictable--Fiona runs into her room and screams for a while, and then when she settles down whichever parent she's mad at usually checks in to see if she's ready to be a human again.

I snuck back to the office to put away some dishes (hey, it's a New York apartment, whaddaya expect?) and saw Fiona running into the living room shouting something with the word toy. She saw I wasn't there, turned around, spotted me coming out of the office and ran toward me, redfaced and still mad as could be.

"It is a toy, Daddy! It is a toy!"

And, having delivered her rebuttal, she stormed back into her room and resumed her screaming.

Hey, she had an important point to make.