I spy…
A pair of black pants
An unpacked suitcase
A letter to Mama
A little dog’s face.
I just want to say, for the record, that this isn’t my fault.
You see, there was this time we had some friends coming over for dinner, and we were drowning in art that the kids were producing in record numbers, because it was summertime and school was out and we don’t watch TV. We had these empty baskets, and my husband thought putting all the papers in the baskets and hiding them in our closet would qualify as cleaning. And then those baskets sort of exploded. All over our closet. While we weren’t looking. Because boys, of course, wanted to know where all their artwork went. And where the writing binders were put. And where those 10 billion paper airplanes ended up.
So, after all their digging, after dinner with our friends, after we put boys to bed and came back into our room and saw this abominable mess, we deflated. We gave up. We surrendered to the law of entropy. We couldn’t walk into our closet, so we just stopped hanging up our clothes and, instead, hung them over all the junk on the floor. We couldn’t reach our shoe storage, so we just left our shoes where we took them off. I could no longer put drawers away when I went digging for sewing scraps, so I just piled them on my sewing table.
Every now and then, boys still come looking for last summer’s artwork, just to keep the mess fresh. So we don’t forget it’s there, I guess. As if we could.
There are probably some science projects growing in here by now.
That reminds me–anybody seen my son’s running shorts?
