Right now, Lilah is passed out on my bed, on her back, wearing delicate pink striped footie pajamas, and over that, her brothers' Cars boxers. Because she insisted. Because she idolizes her brothers and must do what they do at all times. Because she looked so freakin' cute there was no reason to deny her.
Ezra, the policeman of Fair, took note the moment I yanked the boxers up over her bum. He is now asleep in his bed, wearing one pair of underwear under his pajamas and another pair over his pajamas. Because he insisted. As if Lilah would be getting away with something if he hadn't. As if being allowed to go to bed wearing underwear as overwear is somehow evidence of preferential treatment.
Little does he know. Let's just keep it a secret that after I tucked the boys in, I brought Lilah downstairs and let her hang out with me while I straightened up, because I could just tell that trying to put her to bed right then would be pointless. She snacked on peanuts and drank milk. She giggled a lot. When I was done cleaning and she seemed tired enough, I tried to put her in her crib. But she screamed bloody murder, for a long, long time, and so I brought her into bed with me. And I'm not about to move her.
That, Ezra, is what preferential treatment is all about.
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