MyThreeDaughters

After two weeks of vacation during which Fontaine and Elizabeth first shared bunk beds, then slept in sleeping bags in the same room, we were delighted that when they got home they wanted to share a room permanently.
They insisted that I haul Fontaine’s mattress into Elizabeth’s bedroom, and then they dragged other items from Fontaine’s room in there (small desk, doll house, dolls, toys, a life-sized stuffed dog whose name I can’t remember right now) for a full-on cohabitation.
And so the newlywed bliss went, until….it was Saturday mid-day, I was downstairs cleaning up the kitchen, when the screaming began.
“GET OUT OF HERE NOW. YOU’RE MEAN. TAKE YOUR STUFF WITH YOU. GOOD. I DON’T WANT TO BE IN HERE ANYMORE ANYWAY. LEAVE NOW!”
I ran up the steps.
Elizabeth was tossing stuff into the hallway, a la Danny Devito in “Tin Men” when he threw his wife’s stuff out the window, and at the same time she was shouting that certain things were “MINE AND YOU CAN’T HAVE IT!”
Fontaine had her arms full and was dragging crap out as fast as she could. Elizabeth’s room and the upstairs hallway looked like it had been tossed and burgled.
It was loud and aggressive, but fairly “amicable” until the real dispute. As usual, it all came down to one of the kids.
Baby Jenna, a one-inch tall plastic Playmobile doll.
“BABY JENNA IS MINE AND YOU CAN’T TAKE HER,” Elizabeth screamed, tears in her eyes.
“NO, SHE’S ROSE’S DOLL AND ROSE SAID I COULD PLAY WITH HER!”
“NO SHE DIDN’T, AND HER BEDROOM IS IN THIS DOLLHOUSE.”
On and on.
Fontaine retreated into her room, and returned with what can only be described as yet another handful of crap. Three dolls, a broken spy flashlight, and the lamp that Wife got her that she apparently hates because she keeps trying to give it away.
She wanted to swap it all for “Baby Jenna,” the one-inch plastic doll.
Finally, unable to resolve the dispute, the court (me) had to step in and make them both unhappy by putting Baby Jenna in a Foster Home (the pocket of my shorts) until things settled down.
Then, Elizabeth, showing who the true mother really was, insisted that I give Baby Jenna to Fontaine, as that would be a more loving home than the pocket of my shorts.
Poor Baby Jenna had already been through the divorce ringer; accidently sending her through the washing machine would have been just too cruel.