S#!@ my kids say

If you're my friend on Facebook, then you might know a bit of the personality of my middle child, Hannah. That child is a tornado, gift-wrapped in a freakin' hurricane. I love her spunk. Her creativity. Her generosity...just so many things that would take me much too long to post here (but I try to put snippets in her baby book).
 But sometimes, juuuussssst sometimes, she makes me want to hide in the closet in my bedroom, clutching a bottle of tequila, cursing the day I ever thought it would be a great idea to have children.
 Hannah has, so far, not met a single person that she doesn't like. Not a single person that she doesn't want to talk to. Everyone she meets is her friend. I know, I know. What's not absolutely endearing about a sweet little girl, with big, chocolate brown eyes, explaining the world that she sees through them??
 Simple. Hannah lies.
 Now, I don't mean tiny, 3 year old lies. Not the cute ones, where they insist that they're 4 instead of 3, or tell you that their actual first name is Princess. I wish. Nope. I don't get off that easy. She tells the WHOPPERS. The lies that make you want to at least consider just driving out to the country, and leaving your child next to a nice farm. Surely there's a nice family on that farm, and they'll give your child a wonderful life, with open fields for them to run all day, and quaint wood stove for them to sleep next to at night!
 Nicolas never had this problem. The worst thing he went through (so far) was a month long period, when he was about three years old, when he thought every person who was not white, was Latino. And, he would use his Spanish-speaking skills learned from, "Go, Diego, Go!" to try to converse with all these people. If you've seen my son, or heard him speak, you would know why that's not really embarrassing, but HILARIOUS.
 Back to Hannah.
 There's been some blog-worthy tales lately. About 2 months ago, Hannah was jumping on the living room couch. You know, fun little kid stuff. At each end of this couch, I have end tables that are pretty much level with the arms of the couch. I think you know where this story is going, Dear Reader. To keep it simple, Hannah ended up with two staples in the back of her head. But, the worst part was when the paramedics came (yes, I dialed 911. I was home alone with the girls, and the car seats weren't installed that day. THANKS, DAN.) After being filled in, one of the paramedics cheerfully sat down to examine Hannah's head, and asked her the worst thing he could possibly ask her (in my case, anyway).
 "WHAT HAPPENED?"
 Hannah, all 3 years old and cute, looked him square in the eye, and said, "My mommy pushed me down."
 WHAT.THE.HELL.
 There's no way for me to make a quick recovery. I can either stutter out that she's lying, and OF COURSE I did NOT push her (and look guilty), or stay quiet, hoping he surely knows better (and look guilty). Me? I just laughed nervously, said something about crazy shit kids say, and tried not to make eye contact (and looked guilty).
 Just today, we went grocery shopping. We were in the produce section, and it was kind of chilly. Hannah was in short sleeves, and was complaining about being cold. I half-assed consoled her (hey, I was trying to pick some damn avocados), and told her we would be out of the cold section soon, yadayadayada. To exact her revenge for me not taking her seriously, she yelled, "YOU ALWAYS MAKE ME BE COLD AND HUNGRY!!!"
 I swear, that shit echoed to the back of the store.
 People looked at me, with their judging eyes (and probably their smartphones. I better check YouTube here in a bit). Employees, old people, other kids... Everyone. Except one other woman. She had a little girl, about 3 years old. This woman looked at me with eyes that looked like she's seen battle. Cold and empty. I knew, in that instant, that she has felt my pain.
 Lady, if you're reading this, I'll look for you next time I go to HEB. I saw that cheap box of wine in your cart, and I have a feeling we could be best friends.
 Soul mates.