OK. It's finally summer in Wisconsin. How do I know? Because I bought the absolute coolest sport sandals of all time. Purple! (Eat your heart out Amy D!) And because on the way home from shopping I saw a bunch of folks who had pulled their lawn chairs out by the street and were holding a sign that said 'You Honk We Drink! The cacophony of car horns was deafening. Apparently they had been out there for some time because two folks had fallen completely over in their chairs, empties littered the grass, and the sign was upside down. I'm thinking the ploy had been a rousing success not to mention a creative way to jazz up a lazy Sunday afternoon.
Anyway, I promised to tell you the story of picking up Ben's toys and I know both of you have been waiting with baited breath so here goes. For about a year now, I've been trying to teach Ben to pick up his own toys each night. Every night we go through the ritual where I pick up each of the stinking six giggabillion toys strewn around, one by one, and say, 'Pick up your toooooyyyysss' in a sing-songy voice and then place them back in his toy basket . For a year, he has sat and watched me without much interest at all except to stare pointedly at one that's still resting on the floor as if to say, 'You missed one over there!' But, ever the optimist, I keep up the ritual, thinking one day, an errant brain cell will fire and he will 'get it', thus confirming his status as the bessess one evah, yes he is, he's just a big schmmooopy...he's mama's bessess boy, oh yes he is.....er...ahem. Anyway. So far nada. At least in the toy department.
Imagine my surprise when I went into the living room the other morning and found the floor covered with roadkill animal toys as if the toy basket had erupted like Vesuvius and the black dress shoes I was frantically looking high and low for neatly placed inside. Not chewed...although a bit drool covered. And he was sitting on the sofa with a big doggie grin on his face as if to say 'Pick up your shooooeeeesss'. I've been schooled by m'own damn dog! AGAIN! He hasn't done it since and he hasn't picked up his toys either despite my best efforts. Now I say 'Pick up your tooooyyyyysss' through gritted teeth because I KNOW he gets it, he's just CHOOSING NOT TO. He just sits there with an 'I have no idea of what you speak' look on his drool covered face.
Derned thing is smarter than me. I'm doomed as doomed can be I must say (Ed Grimly 1983)!