En ligneNanny's NurseryMar 19 Fév 2019, 20:29
Rappel du premier message :
- Tour de jeu : Sip - ? - ? (Triple S !)
- Délai maximum d'attente de réponse : une semaine
- Sauts de tours : 1
- Autre : we speak English here (+ 20 cookies à vous deux
)
Dalton tried to argue multiple times that 8 is way too old to have a babysitter.
He tried getting his point across calmly, relying on the pure logic of it. If he can read and apply the instructions on microwave dinners, make his own food and walk to school by himself, then it follows he can definitely spend an entire day alone. This didn't work. He tried to convince his mother rationally, with a carefully crafted PowerPoint presentation filled with bullet points and colorful slides. This didn't work either. He tried to beg. Major failure. He even tried his hand at threats: "IF YOU MAKE ME GO, I'LL BE HORRIBLE AND THEY'LL THROW ME OUT." This was definitely counterproductive.
Here he was, 24 hours later, in his full 8-year-old glory. Queenie had dropped him off about half an hour ago, and Dalton still hadn't settled in. He was still cross at her for having dumped him here unceremoniously and it showed on his small, grumpy, purple face. Everything was small and childish in the nursery. Clearly these toys were made with smaller children in mind. 8-year-olds had no business being here, he maintained.
Dalton was still pouting in his corner, actively ignoring the robot-Nanny that was supposed to take care of them (of him !), when the bell above the door rang, announcing the arrival of another child.
CONTRAT DE NOT'RP !
- Tour de jeu : Sip - ? - ? (Triple S !)
- Délai maximum d'attente de réponse : une semaine
- Sauts de tours : 1
- Autre : we speak English here (+ 20 cookies à vous deux
)Dalton tried to argue multiple times that 8 is way too old to have a babysitter.
He tried getting his point across calmly, relying on the pure logic of it. If he can read and apply the instructions on microwave dinners, make his own food and walk to school by himself, then it follows he can definitely spend an entire day alone. This didn't work. He tried to convince his mother rationally, with a carefully crafted PowerPoint presentation filled with bullet points and colorful slides. This didn't work either. He tried to beg. Major failure. He even tried his hand at threats: "IF YOU MAKE ME GO, I'LL BE HORRIBLE AND THEY'LL THROW ME OUT." This was definitely counterproductive.
Here he was, 24 hours later, in his full 8-year-old glory. Queenie had dropped him off about half an hour ago, and Dalton still hadn't settled in. He was still cross at her for having dumped him here unceremoniously and it showed on his small, grumpy, purple face. Everything was small and childish in the nursery. Clearly these toys were made with smaller children in mind. 8-year-olds had no business being here, he maintained.
Dalton was still pouting in his corner, actively ignoring the robot-Nanny that was supposed to take care of them (of him !), when the bell above the door rang, announcing the arrival of another child.
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