“One day, baby,” he says.
“One day, what?” I say, because usually this ends in something like “One day we’ll go to Paris” or “One day we’ll take a weekend to New York” or “One day we’ll have a clean house,” but it’s too early in the morning for dreaming big like that.
“One day we’ll be able to walk around our house and not get glitter on us,” he says.
Two of our boys got into glitter the other day. We left them downstairs for their Quiet Time with explicit instructions about what was expected and what they were allowed to play with. Glitter was most definitely not on the list.
An hour later, when we came back downstairs to check on them, green glitter was everywhere, in little neat piles. But everyone who knows glitter knows it won’t stay that way.
Now it’s everywhere.
(See the baby in the picture? If you look really closely, you’ll see some specks of glitter on his belly. This is not because we let him play with glitter, of course. It’s just that glitter.)
That night, we had glitter in our chicken soup, glitter in our water, glitter in our spice cookies for dessert.
There is glitter on my laptop. There is glitter on all our books. There is glitter on the seat of my pants and on every surface of my kids’ skin.
It’s been days, y’all. It doesn’t matter how many times we’ve wiped it up and thrown it in the trash. Glitter is persistent. It just keeps coming back.
“Hey, Mama, come look at my poop!” my 6-year-old said today. (This is not an unusual request in a household of boys. So, of course I did.)
There was glitter in his poop. Amazing.
I don’t know if we’re ever going to see the end of it.
