As queen and supreme ruler of Tuna Land I declared these last two days as cleaning days.
Yesterday, I got out the back ho, handed each kid a shovel and set off to conquer that wasteland of toys and crap we call a playroom.
After picking up a thousand Legos and hundreds of trains, but still with heaps of dolls, games, and puzzle pieces to go, I got a phone call.
Now, I only abandoned my ho for a few minutes and left the kids to toil in what I thought would remain companionable silence, when I heard a screech.
I calmly asked my caller to hold while I asked my eldest child, "What happened?" But she couldn't get a word in edgewise when the injured boy immediately ceased crying to explain, "She squeezed me!"
Isn't it funny how they can stop their painful wailing once they have someone's ear to complain to?
"Did you squeeze your brother?" Ever the fair ruler I gave her a chance to refute the charges.
"Yes. He stopped cleaning."
"Go to your room. I don't care what he did or didn't do, you don't hurt your brother."
She was smart and guilty enough not to argue or pout and just trudged up the stairs. I returned briefly to my phone call only to hear the guilty party start crying.
Apparently she had found a judge to hear her appeal. And Daddy is much more susceptible to girlish tears.
I pulled the phone away from my ear in time to hear my daughter implore, "But he wouldn't focus!"
This is when I dropped the phone and convulsed in laughter. My husband bent over clutching his stomach and barely saved himself from falling down the stairs in mirth. I could even hear my friend on the phone gasping for breath through his chortles.
That is the definition of irony. That is what the phrase pot calling the kettle black was invented for.
Our little fairy-watching, unicorn-dreaming space cadet was upset because her future-accountant brother wouldn't focus?
It's these little gems that make having kids worthwhile.