I had to take her with us.
It was spring break, I had both kids and no daycare.
The Mayor had to go to his occupational therapy appointment so he could work on repairing the nerve damage in his hand.
The Rooster had to come too.
Of course she wanted to do everything The Mayor did but the physical therapist wouldn't allow it.
She wouldn't let poor Rooster... join in any hand therapy games.
[Oh, I keeeell myself.]
Rooster couldn't touch anything in the therapist's full-tilt, super-fun, play gym.
As any two and a half year old would, The Rooster became frustrated after hearing the word "NO!" so frequently.
I wanted to watch The Mayor's treatment, but I finally had to take The Rooster out of the room.
I headed for the bathroom because, well... I had to go.
[I should have kegeled.]
Once we were in the bathroom with the door closed, The Rooster burst into tears.
She sobbed and sobbed as if in dire anguish.
"What's wrong, Roo? What happened?" I asked, worried that she had somehow hurt herself.
"Her... her... her...," she gasped.
"Tell me," I coaxed.
"Her... is not... paying... attention... to meeeeee!!!"
Oh, my sweet muffin.
[BTW---The Mayor is making great progress. His hand therapy visits have been reduced from twice to just once per week. He needs to re-build his overall arm and hand strength, but he's largely mended. We can finally exhale.]