Playing Hotel

Yesterday I was trying to get a few chores done while taking care of my summer little girl. As I unloaded the dishwasher, she asked me if I could come play "beach vacation" with her and her doll friends who had already started this adventure and been sprawled across the couch catching some rays since I had arrived. Instead of just refusing to play, I decided that I'd try to include her in what I was doing, hoping that this might cushion the blow later in the day when I knew I'd have to tell her to entertain herself. Instead I offered to be the "hotel manager" in charge of the hotel where her and her friends were staying. This worked out well, as there is a counter between the kitchen and the living room in her house with another couch in front of it that she loves to climb on.

She bounced up to the counter with her baby and announced that she would like a hotel room.

"Absolutely, ma'am," I chirped. "How many beds would you like?"

"Just one," she responded.

"Will you be needing a crib?" I asked, referencing her baby.

"No."

"No?" I asked again. "Not for your baby?"

"No," she affirmed.

I let it go.

"Alright," I continued, "would you like a king-sized bed or a queen-sized bed?"

She thought for a minute and arrived at a decision.

"I would just like a daughter-sized bed."

I stifled my laughter, swiped her "credit card," had her sign her "bill," and sent her back to the beach.