This morning was no exception.
It started off like any other Sunday morning. Full of sunshine and promise.
This ended rapidly after I'd painted Tiny's nails for her - with my nail polish I received as part of my birthday present. Which I hadn't used. She got peeved with the Doctor and threw the bottle on the ground. It smashed to a kazillion pieces spattering pink nail polish all over the floor. All over the Doctor. All over the Doctor's favourite t-shirt, new jeans and socks. All over the Doctor's Beyblades.
To tell you I wasn't impressed is a gross understatement. It's a big, fat, disgusting understatement. It's a HUUUUUGE understatement.
Usually I am the kind of woman that steps straight in and sorts things out. Not today. I jumped up and down on the spot like I was on a bed of hot coals, flapping my hands around. Then I just stood there looking at the Doctor covered in hot pink polish.
I sent Tiny away. And we got to fixing things up.
But that's not all. No. No. The story does not end here.
Back when my Mum was in Sydney helping with the smalls, I went to go to bed reasonably early. It was 9:30pm and I went to brush my teeth, and who should I meet in the hallway? Ah yes. Tiny. With black circles on each of her cheeks. It's 9:30pm. WITH BLACK CIRCLES ON HER CHEEKS.
I knew she'd been meddling with my cosmetics bag. She'd been in my bed giving herself an Emo makeover with my Stila Smudge Pots - which is like eyeliner that will not ever, ever come off, which I rarely ever use because it requires industrial amounts of make-up remover to get even a little bit off, it's the perfect eyeliner if you're Jacques Cousteau and never want your make-up to come off. And she had smeared it all over her cheeks, in almost perfect circles. Oh and all over her hands too.
The joy. The deep joy.
But friends, gather round, because this is not even close the end. I cleaned that stuff off her - she didn't flinch, she didn't cry, even though I was fuming and had steam coming out my ears. I almost did. But Tiny, nope, not even one little tear.
So a week or so later finds me at work. One of my colleagues took a photo of me, because of course I wanted to play with this and I looked so tired, I decided to put some more make-up on. Look tired? No fear, add blush. I innocently reached into the depths of my make-up bag, pulled out my trusty blush, and applied a big, fat black circle on my cheek.
It was at this point I realised Tiny had used my blush brush to apply her perfect black circles. And now I shared the same look. Except I looked as though I was sporting a massive bruise on my cheek. Hot.
Then I looked at all my damn make-up brushes. That little Tiny had used every single one of my brushes in that smudge pot/greasepaint palaver.
Tiny and my make-up? Not a great mix.