In the ongoing saga of my magpie-esque children, I found my slippers under my stairs two mornings ago.
I suppose I should be happy they weren’t in the crock pot.
On that same day, I walked into the toy room to find it completely empty except for the bookshelf, and dress-up hooks, and my children sitting on the bare floor. I must admit that part of me just wanted to leave it that way; it was the best it has looked since we moved in. However, I knew the toys hadn’t been transported to an alternate dimension, so I had to ask.
“Where are the toys?”
The cheesedoodle stood up, opened the closet door with a Vanna-like flourish and said, “Ta-da!”
I have no idea how they managed to get that closet as full as they did. I have no idea how it didn’t crush my son in mid “ta-da.” Every single toy and the toy bin was piled into the closet, and my children were sitting side by side with their backs to it. The mackerdoodle jumped in with an eager explanation.
“My husband just graduated so we’re moving. That’s our moving truck.”
That’s why they were sitting that way. They were driving a moving truck.
“Here’s the thing with moving,” I said. “When you get to the other end you have to unpack it all and put it away.”
“Yes,” agreed the mackerdoodle. “But it’s going to be a long drive.”