Yesterday I woke up to the sceeching of “It’s MY house!”

No, banks were not pounding at my door. My middle daughter seems to think that our new fab cardboard construction that is decorated with duct tape and measures over six feet tall is hers and hers alone.

“Mommy! Is that house mine?”

I braced myself. Of course it wasn’t hers. In a house of three kids, two dogs, and two cats, nothing is rarely your own. We share or in the case of the cats, we give everything to them without question.

I sighed. “It was your idea but you have to share it.”

Insert screaming here.

My brilliant idea: “How about if I look for another cardboard box? I can make another house and you can have that one.”

Shot down.

My usual argument: “Well, if you can’t share, then you cannot play in it.”

Insert exaggerated sigh here.

She ran downstairs to tell her siblings of my brilliant plan.

“Mommy said she is going to find another box and you and L can share that one!”

Aargh. “No, I didn’t!” More screaming. Then odd silence.

“Mommy, A wrote on the house! She wrote ‘A’s house’!”

Insert sigh here.