|"It's just the fuse box, Bill. Don't you think a screwdriver would be less dramatic?"|
They say the hardest thing about raising children is remembering to bathe them four times a year.
No, maybe that was two times a year.
Before June, but after July?
No matter, I'm here to tell you, the hardest thing about raising children is keeping them from sticking things in places where the sticking is less than advantageous.
- Oh, you mean it's not customary to mix the peanut butter with one's fist?
- Crayola said the orange, red, yellow and Burnt Sienna were best stored down the heat vent. That masterpiece on your hand is called, "Heat Smells Like Imagination."
- Since when do dogs not like drumsticks poked at their butt? What do you know about music?
- You're yelling like the finger in your eye is somehow inconvenient for you. Curious. Get a load of the lady who hates fingers in her eye.
Husband: Where are the lights?
Me: I was changing the baby.
Me: The children. The children did something. The children are always doing something. I heard a "pop." Wizardry of some sort? Look out the window. Does it look like the dimension you're accustomed to?
While Husband scrabbled around in the dark, Sundance decided to help with a soft battery of questions which carressed my temple like machine gun fire:
What happened? What happened? Who broke it? What happened? Did Butch stick something in the light socket? He broke the lights? What happened? Daddy fix it? What haaaaaappend?
Hush child, or I'm buying you a one-way ticket on a barge to Peru.
A couple expletives, some sparking, and one readjustment to my miner's hat later, and it was discovered Butch had indeed been poking around at a light socket. With what, we're not exactly sure, but the fact he was crying and yelling, "I broke it," really helped narrow down the suspects.
So, today the lights are on, and it's back to the business of taking apart all of our worldly possessions. But I can see it happening, and that's the important part.
Until Next Time, Readers!