Yesterday after my babysitter arrived, Ruthie started throwing a fit over [insert ANYTHING] so I put her in a time out on a chair in the hallway where she immediately began crying and screeching at high octaves. But she was in the other room, so the rest of us continued our conversation.
When the babysitter found a little doll’s brush, she said to Thomas, “Can I brush your hair, Thomas?”
As if a switch had been flipped, the screeching stopped instantly, and Ruthie said in the most rational, matter-of-fact, calm voice, “Thomas doesn’t have any hair!”
Both of us snorted through our noses trying to suppress the laughter as Ruthie flipped the switch back on and continued her screeching.