I look at the phone, trying to talk myself into the call I know I need to make.
“I won’t! I won’t!” cries the two-year-old in my head. She is, I’m sure, holding an ice cream cone that’s dripping down one side with ‘splat! splat!’ sounds while making a petulant scowl. “I don’t hafta!”
“It wasn’t my fault! I didn’t do this! Why should I be the one to fix it?” huffs the angermonster who is supposed to be locked up but is actually roaming around, bumping into everyone else. “I will not be the person to take the blame!”
“Are they going to be mad at us?” asks the anxious teeny-bopper from somewhere behind everyone else. She’s already hiding, trying to avoid the consequences that are sure to follow.
“Maybe if we’re really polite, if we’re really sorry, they won’t yell,” says the sunny girl twirling around with daisies clutched in her hands.
They’re all talking at once. The Voice of Reason is, of course, silent.
I did, eventually, pick up the phone.
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