“We need to hop the bus if we’re going to make it to tea. Can you tell Fletcher thank you for letting Sweet Pea play?” Wrong thing to say. Wrong wrong wrong. Hallie’s chin juts out and her eyes narrow and she gives me the three-year-old version of the what the fuck is wrong with you, lady? look. “Fetcher and Sweet Pea come to tea wif us.” “Our reservation is only for two, and they don’t let dogs in.” Logic is not my friend when it comes to almost-four-year-olds. Nor is any chance that she’ll forget she said she wanted him to come to tea.
