Oh, Molly, what am I ever going to do with you?

I managed to get Logan down for a nap at 11:30, and Molly was so engaged with writing her name across a stack of scrap paper with a green dry erase marker that I snuck off to take a quick shower, because, quite frankly, I stunk.

I quickly showered, threw on a clean Old Navy tank with a pair of lounge pants and plopped back down in front of my laptop.

Molly wandered over and closely examined the front of my tank. She brushed the lettering, "What's that, Momma?"

"It's letters, Molly. It says, 'Old Navy.' See? O-L-D N-A-V-Y." She looked puzzled.
"No, Mamma," she said with authority, "They're boobies," then added, "I think," in her little 3-year-old voice.

Without skipping a beat, "Yes, Molly, they are boobies, and if you are anything like your Mommy, you will sprout your own in the third grade."