For Therapy...

This picture is a self-portrait. It's entitled "Sad, Screaming Rachel." I've decided to post it -- just in case something happens to the hard copy before Rachel's adolescence. You know, before she can take it to her therapist to help explain her childhood. Flashback: We've been enjoying a mellow evening. It's nearly time for the bedtime routine to commence. Dad strolls past the girls' bedroom, notices the pink explosion, and calls the girls to clean their room before bed. Little girls not only DON'T come running, but Dad has to call several times -- becoming a little less than nice by the last call. They are finally in the bedroom and Dad mistakenly thinks that the deal is sealed. Dad leaves room. Girls leave room. (Repeat a few times.) With patience wearing thin, Dad explains to the little ladies that having toys is a privilege and if the toys are not taken care of, they will be taken away. Rachel chooses a very poor time to try out a little bit of sass on her papa. Dad disappears downstairs only to reappear with a big black garbage bag. He proceeds to pick up toys and toss them in the bag. All you-know-what breaks loose! I am watching and begin to understand "weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth." Fast forward 15 minutes. Rachel and Bailey are starting to catch their breath. Swollen eyes and hiccups. They've wheeled and dealed with their daddy. He's agreed not to throw the toys away but put them in an undisclosed time-out location until they are earned back. The girls are so exhausted from their complete break-down that they fall asleep before their little heads hit the pillows. The next day Rachel sits down at the dining room table with paper and markers. She creates this masterpiece.