Oh, I know.
I'm ruining her, stunting her intellectual prowess at the tender age of three. But after I asked her to abstain from a twenty-third wardrobe change, and after I broke up at least 50 fights between her and Christopher, and manged at least 83 of her meltdowns about the inadequate snack options available and her sheer distaste for any beverage except something loaded with sugar, I don't really care.
Her brain can rot for 30 minutes. It's not going to kill her.
"Hey, I have a great idea," I announced after her bath, where she spent most of her time bemoaning the tear-free soap in her eyes, the horrible mother who doesn't like when she dunks her face under the water, and her lack of personal space also known as Christopher. "How about we get you dressed and you watch some Barney?"
"In the living room on the big TV?" she queried.
"Yep. In the living room. On the big TV, Camille. You can watch him on the big screen," I answered.
Apparently, this particular television viewing experience appealed to the little darling because she issued grand cheers and shouts of good will from her tiny, wet body. I toweled her off, put her in her fairy jammies (they're really ballerinas but you try and tell her that), and I summoned the almighty Netflix while she pulled out her pint-sized chair and....
Her silence is golden. Her rapt attention in something other than making messes and starting fights is priceless. Her love for that dumb, oversized purple dinosaur is almost touching.
I know you get a bad rap, Barney.
I know people make fun of you because you are kinda weird and frankly, kinda annoying.
But today, Barney?
God Bless you, you big, purple lug.