Best. Laughing baby video ever.
Summer Finds Things
She said/He Said/They Said
Best. Laughing baby video ever.
This is almost precisely what happened to me:
Except I never made it back to cool.
And the verdict is…
The scene: TeenHer’s bedroom. A bagful of trash from the kitchen trash can has been retrieved from the dumpster and poured onto the bed. TeenHer’s story has changed, and now the new story is that she made up the bit about burned paper because Big Mean Mom wouldn’t believe her about simply burning incense. And also? She never said she put the stick in the bedroom can. She actually threw the stick in the kitchen trashcan.
Poor kid. She knew we’d emptied the can, and took the gamble. Whoops. After refusing to go through the trash, and refusing to tell the truth, and being reminded (maybe with a little less serenity than I usually display) that she isn’t the boss in this house, TeenHer breaks down. Says she gives up; the trash is too disgusting.
And says nothing. “Getting up the nerve to say something”
“You had four hours to make up a story. Be careful, and make sure whatever you tell us, you can prove.”
So. She was burning a Lipton tea bag. And threw it outside.
I know, right?
But M took her and the flashlight out there, and she produced the burnt tea bag.
Tea leaves. Because we’re out of incense. Um, OK.
“Something’s on fire” I thought much too calmly as we walked in the door from our four hundredth consecutive trip to Lowes. I called out to TeenHer. “What’s on fire?”
“OK, what WAS on fire?” (Remember semantics are everything to TeenHer)
“Nothing! Oh do you mean incense? I burned some incense”
”No. I smell incense but something else has burned. What is it.”
“I don’t know! I burned some incense!”
“TeenHer. Where is the incense?”
“I burned it.”
”Show me where”
“On the bookshelf”
“What did you burn the incense in?”
“Where is the burner, TeenHer?”
At this point, TeenHer begins to pick through the very few things left on her bookshelf (we’re moving) and mutters, “now, where did it go?”
“TeenHer. This is the point at which you back up and admit you’re lying and tell me what happened and what caught on fire”
“Sorry. Incense caught a piece of paper on fire”
I storm off, meet M in the hall. “That’s pot” he proclaims, my husband who has never smoked pot.
“You think so? I don’t think so!”
He enters TeenHer’s room. “Where is the paper that caught on fire?”
“In the trash”
Shuffle shuffle through the trashcan. “I can’t find it!”
“Then where’s the incense stick? You said you threw the burned out stick and the paper in to the trash. Find the stick”
“I can’t find it!”
I jump in: “Dump the trash on the floor” (I’ve already stuck my face in this trashcan; nothing that was once on fire is in that can. The smell is coming from someplace else)
She sifts through the trash, proclaims that she has no earthly idea what could have happened to the paper and the incense stick.
“Well, TeenHer you are the only person here, correct?”
“Well, ToddlerA is here” (remember semantics?)
“TeenHer, where is ToddlerA right now?”
So. Either my almost 13-year-old was burning sage, or smoking pot, or burning SOMETHING, in her bedroom this afternoon or we have a poltergeist who went into the trash can and removed a burnt piece of paper and a remnant of an incense stick as we were walking in the door this afternoon. The child is sticking with her story, and we are left feeling like we must now become the po-lice.
I called my friend to re-tell this one because I couldn’t remain in the room anymore-this time I was just laughing too hard to maintain.
“I didn’t smell pot, though!” I said. “I didn’t smell that sweet yummy scent!”
“Summer, you smelled shake.” She replied. “It’s probably been a while. It’s not sweet and yummy, the stuff you get to smoke when you’re 12”