Nigel: Look! I built an airplane!!!
Mary: An airplane! (Three blocks stacked up is too an airplane! If you look at it the right way…)
Nigel: Yeah! I built it on the lutes!
Mary: On the what?
Nigel: I built it on the lutes!
Mary: On the lutes?
Mary: Wow! Good for you!
Thus proving you can do a fine job in this parenting gig, without having a clue what is going on…
Lunch. Chili on rice with green beans. A bib-imperative meal.
BUT! Bibs? Hello, bibs? I can find precisely ONE. Where did they go? How did they get there? Not a flippin’ clue, but I have five children ranged round the table, salivating. I can’t keep them waiting long.
I don’t do disposable much, but paper towels were made for times like this. I tuck one under four chins. The messiest chin (Timmy!) gets the sole bib. (Timmy is not a picky eater, but he’s slooooow. Slow, because every morsel of food must be examined, rolled between his fingers, peered at, sniffed, and finally smeared everywhere – table, face, hands, arms, top of head – before it actually disappears into his mouth. I figure he’s so slim because two-thirds of each meal is lost in the smearing, deposited hither and yon long before it can be ingested. Food as sculpting medium.)
At the end of the meal, one filthy bib, and three filthy paper towels are removed from four relatively tidy tummies.
The fifth paper towel? Seems Emily has taken up Timmy’s hobby, and has been doing a little sculpting, herself. There, on Emily’s tray, atop a slimy pile of rejected kidney beans, lay the sodden, shredded remains of her bib. White on red. Fabric on slime on fabric. Ugh. I think next time Emily will get the One True Bib.
We found the Sharpie.
Well, Emily found the Sharpie. Probably about 4 full minutes before I found her finding it. She’s right-handed, you know, which explains the state of her left hand. And both her feet.
But that’s it! One black hand, two tattooed feet. Not clothing, not walls, not furniture nor even her face – or anyone else’s.
I’m thinking we all got off lightly.
Except perhaps Emily’s parents…
A nightmare can be such a simple thing.
The lid for a black Sharpie lies on the dining room table. A lid which, when last seen, had the Sharpie firmly attached.
There are five toddlers under the age of three in my home. There is also a loose Sharpie, with the safety off, somewhere in that home.
This is my nightmare.
By four this afternoon, I will be Officially married. Thanks to all you who gave your congratulations a day early – it’s just that this Monday is a holiday up here!
My laptop is dying!! Must go!!!
Every child was dropped off by a dad this morning. Usually there’s a mix of parenting genders.
I greet the child, I exchange a few pleasantries with the adult, we grin at the enthusiasm of the children who are gathered around to greet their incoming buddy. The shoes are removed, the slippers donned, the parent waves and heads on his way.
Only after all this has happened, FIVE TIMES, do I realize my shirt is on inside-out.
So glad it was the dads.