Part III 1/2
Yes, of course I went in my son’s fort.
What kind of a blogger would I be if I didn’t?
A safe and warm one, that’s what kind.
Here’s the view as I army crawled inside, feeling pretty darn nervous about that plywood. I was certain that it’d collapse on me, in which case my blog would get a new name.
Coming soon to a computer near you.
Okay, I’ll admit it. The inside of the fort felt warm & cozy. The only thing missing was my insulated mug and a copy of the latest issue of Boy’s Life. “Survive! Get out alive!” its cover text promises.
Perhaps I’ll stick with People instead.
As I scooted about on my—What’s the polite word? Bum?—I noticed a familiar object.
A grill spatula. Mine! Stolen from the shelf in the garage.
You know, it’s not that they borrow my stuff that I mind. It’s that they borrow without asking first and then they leave it where they used it.
Ask my husband and he’ll agree: Abandoned tools are grounds for adoption.
My red kitchen rugs disappeared a few weeks ago. One day they were there in front of the sink & refrigerator and the next day…they just weren’t. “Where’d my rugs go?” I demanded. No one seemed to know or care, and I added yet another item to the growing list of my dementia.
And then, one day, I took George out to play. (I do do this sometimes. I don’t always make his siblings watch him.) As we wandered around over the Arctic tundra, I saw something red sticking out of the play-set.
One of my kitchen rugs, of course.
Frozen solid to the floor.
“Oh yeah!” one of my children remembered. “So & So took those out for a game.” The other one, she added, was buried elsewhere in a snowdrift. “You’ll find it in the spring…probably…” Her smile was hopeful.
Grounds for adoption, I tell you!
Here’s the thing, though. You know that grill spatula my son used in his fort? It’s still sitting there. One, it’s his job to return it, not mine, and two…
It’s not like I’ll be needing it anytime soon.
Happy Saturday, everyone!