I spent most of yesterday painting and crackling my dining table. Lots of paint. Fumes. I'd like to think that factored in to the story I'm about to tell.
Last night one of my neighbors pulled up in her car and Bo immediately pounced on her with 50 questions, "What are you doing? Where did you go? What are you eating? Why are you eating in your car?" She was sweet and answered him. When you don't have to live with it, it's kind of cute. Then they moved on to what she was going to do next. He's great with timelines. She said she was going to pick up her boys from football practiced and asked if he wanted to come. Of course he did. The kid knows the routine, he said "But first I need to put on some pants." Yes, it was about 6 pm. Yes, he was outside. No, I don't think there's much cuter than a 3 year old running around in navy blue undies. Yes, I'm low-rent.
Since the poor kid had been cooped up all week, I let him go. She knew we were battling chicken pox, so I figured it was her own choice to take the risk. I went in and got the keys to the car and pulled out his booster seat to put in her car and off they went.
We finished up the table, cleaned up the yard and went inside. Bo came home. I put my kids to bed. Some of them twice.
This morning I took the trash out to the curb and saw something on top of my car that didn't belong. I stepped closer and about fell over.
Do you see what I saw?
Twelve hours they were there.
Not only is this something that should NEVER happen. It is something one should never let the father of one's children know has happened.
And yet, I blog.
The end.
