Snot Me

"You've always been a snot bucket." Says Mom

I blink.

"You could," Dad clears his throat, "get through life with a little patience.

Huh? I haven't been targeted by the parental team attack for, oh I don't know, a decade. I widen eyes at Dad. "Well, I've made it this far."

The stink eye flares to life and Mom snaps. "Kelly Louise."

Dad, more of a pacifist, chuckles. "I liked to pinch your toes when you were a newborn."

I narrow my eyes.

"Yep, I'd hold you up with one hand and stare into those marvelous beady little eyes. You weren't a cryer, but boy could you glare. I'd pinch the tips of your toes and your eyes would flash."

"You weren't a happy baby." Adds Mom.

"Thanks guys." I mumble under my breath, but memories flash across their features and I don't think they hear me.

"You didn't smile until the day you sat up." Dad wags a finger at me. "After that we didn't see a happy face til you learned to walk. Did we Honey?"

"Not likely," Says Mom. "Then you destroyed three playpens and your sister's crib."

"Yep," Dad drags his fists outward from his solar plexis and grunts, "you pulled the bars apart on one, demolished the netting on another, and dismantled the third."

"Then you became a nightmare." Says Mom. "Want tea?"

"I'll stick with coffee, thanks, but keep this up and I'll need a cookie."

"You always did." She says. "Cookie Daddy. Cookie Daddy. Cookie Daddy. That's all we heard at bedtime."

Dad laughs, his head nods, his eyes twinkle. Mom's a smart woman, she's devious, I think she made sure I'd be calling for Dad in the middle of the night. I'm sure Dad knew it too.