One day, after I remind you that it's your turn to clean the kitchen, you may ask me why I work your fingers to the bone. Why I seem to take joy in watching you work. And who, pray tell, made me the Slave Driver.
To which I will only say: You did, dear.
...
This conversation is neither a figment of my imagination nor exaggerated for dramatic effect.
Selah: "Can I clean the counters?" She pauses for a whooping 2 seconds before rushing on, completely frantic that I didn't answer an automatic yes. "Charis got to wash dishes...can't I help too? Please??????"
Me: "Alright."
She does a little jig around the kitchen, yelling her excitement. ;)
Who would've thought that I'd have to fight off my girls when trying to clean the house?! Seriously. They're begging to help. Asking me to teach them "chores".
Even thanking me when I let them.
...
So there you have it, Dear Teenage Daughters, the reason why you are now part of the local slave market.
You asked me to enlist you. And I, the ever loving mother, obliged.
