The Note, The Roses, and the Plan

The Note:
Most weekend mornings
I leave a note.
I'm a stay-up-late-sleep-in-kind-of-gal.
The girls are the get-up-when-the-sun-shines-in-kind-of-kids.
The good news is
They are independent.
Therefore
I get to sleep in a little
And they get some freedom
And we are developing trust.

(Thank God called me to foster
Older
Independent
Kiddos!)

The notes seem to usually be filled with
Directions
To-dos
Homework
Etc.

It was nice to write this one for tomorrow morning.

The Roses:

The girls came home
From their weekly visit
Each with a bouquet of roses.

At first, I think

How cute.
How sweet.

(Now...I am 36 and have never received a bouquet of roses
Now - that might be from being eternally single
And the fact that I think they are a waste of money and die to quickly.
Give me carnations any day.
But...I digress.)

Then I find out WHO gave them to them.
I make eye-contact with the parent-aide 
And I walk outside for a private chat with her.

I can't go into details on the WHO
Or WHY its relied me up so,
But I seriously CAN'T believe that *#&$^ person was invited to the visit
And that permission was never asked for
And the parent aide was never told ahead of time.
Ambush.

And then to look at those roses and KNOW
They are from the *%#!*$#
It seriously makes me want to vomit.

But
I've taken care of it.

I am pretty sure they will be
Dying,
Wilting,
Croaking,
Extra earlier than usual
Extra faster than usual

All I have to decide is whether to use
Shampoo
Dish soap
or
Bleach
In order to speed up the dying off process.

Maryann
In the Kitchen
With the Bleach.

Guilty.
And proud of it.

I need to bake in that kitchen all day tomorrow.
I don't want those looming over me.