Last week, I washed and rewashed the couch covers, trying to get out Charlotte’s dry-erase marker drawings. Giving up, I put them back on the couch, priced dye and remained indecisive on whether to let well enough alone or attempt to dye them from tan to a dark brown.
Today, having eaten leftover sloppy joe (from the meal Pierce has displayed on his face in an earlier post) during school instructions, my dirty fork lie in a nearly empty bowl on the coffee table.
Dear child, in one fell motion, lowered a foot, the fork flew like a catapult and decorated my freshly labored-over couch in greasy, tomato-doused meat.
What are the chances?!
I grouched, sprayed, soaked, and told dear child my true feelings.
I am impressed. That couldn’t ever happen again quite so efficiently, no matter who tried. But please don’t try.
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