I took Chloe and Ellie to the park yesterday.

This was not my idea given the weather report had me convinced the only comfortable clothing we could possibly wear outdoors would be thongs, feather boas and nipple covers—it was a hot one.

I was enjoying a lovely chat with Mason’s Grandmother who had made the mistake of wheeling him via red wagon to the park and the two of them appeared severely dehydrated and weak from a lack of fluids and an unforgiving weather man.

I like chatting with caregivers at the park (well, I used to) and learning about what brought them out on a day the sweat-lodges were clearly all booked up.

Enter Chloe.

Chloe to Mason (who was at least a year her junior and wanted nothing more than to lick the sweat from her cheek): “I don’t really care.”

Stern look from Granny whom I thought was my new friend having bonded over our mutual delirium.

Chloe again: I don’t really give a care. (this time, she had her hands on her hips and appeared at least from my angle to be pecking poor Mason on his face like an angry rooster)

Mason retreating from this strange and unwanted exchange.

Chloe shouting while chasing after him: You’re a Jer!

Once again, she’s used her technique of dropping a key letter or letters off of a word she knows is forbidden, in this case, the letter “k,” thus making it impossible for us to discipline her.

“You’re a jer, you’re a jer” she heckled.

I knelt down to Chloe’s level resting my knee in a puddle of my own juices and tried to explain I was onto her and she was not to call people names.

“That’s stoop.”

Foiled again.