Pretty soon I heard a familiar word. "Ow!!"
This time it was Owen. After some investigating, I deduced that Ashley had hit him over the head with a wiffle ball bat. A time-out ensued.
Later, as we were all munching on a healthy dinner of Bronco's burgers and fries, I related to Scott that Ashley had bat-bopped her brother's brain. How's that for some fancy alliteration? Don't mind me, just trying to class this post up.
Anyway, Scott told Ashley that he might have to call Dr. B (our pediatrician) and tell him what she did. We name-drop Dr. B a lot, because for some reason Ashley really cares what Dr. B thinks. Probably because he's the guy who calls the shots. Literally. (Last time she got "FIVE shots, mommy! And they PINCHED!", which she reminds me of
It didn't phase her one bit. Instead, it triggered her to tell us the Passion of the Christ, taught via her Christian preschool and interpreted by her four-year-old mind.
"Yeah, mommy! I could go to jail just like Jesus! And they might put a crown on my forehead! And it would PINCH! And then he walked and they yelled KILL HIM KILL HIM, and then they put holes in his hands and stuck him RIGHT HERE with a stick and then he was dead. But now he's in heaven and in our hearts."
Yikes. At least now I know who to blame for the wiffle bat violence. Damn preschool. ;-)