I gave birth to the Devil.

It's not the first one. Although she and I only speak the same language every second Thursday, and on days that involve something she REALLY WANTS TO DO, she's genuinely probably the sweetest tween on the planet.

It's not the second one. No. While, if left alone with an empty shampoo bottle, two paper clips and a My Little Pony, she could probably build an atom bomb and solve world hunger, she's okay, too. Because she doesn't have a subtle, or quiet, bone in her body, you KNOW when she is up to something, and her plots are fairly easy to foil. Like, when she was trying to flood the upstairs bathroom, I knew it, without stepping up the stairs.

She's not quiet.

 Nope.

 The real wild one is, by far, the quietest. She's built, solidly, like her marginally older sister, and that provides me some advantage, since if she were mouse like, I'd probably never be able to find her except when she wanted to eat. She can cause mass destruction in the blink of an eye, and you will NEVER HEAR IT COMING.  I just came back from warming up my coffee, to find that she had sidled her way past my homemade barricade, slipped behind the couch, took out the end table, and was attempting to rewire the lamp.

She did this in the time it took me to walk out to the kitchen and pour coffee. No cream, no sugar, because I'm alone with her and I know I don't have time for bells and whistles. Caught, she gave me an angelic smile, and slipped back behind the couch again.

So she could come and give me a huge snuggle, with sweet smiles and giggles. How can I even scold her? She's too freaking cute!

See? The Devil.