I’m sitting on the floor in our “library” with my 8 year old looking over my shoulder on the cushy chair behind me. He’s watching me edit a Jaredite story for a friend — another homeschool win. Grammar lessons, in real time.
“What’s editing?”
“It’s fixing mistakes and making things better.”
“Just have Grammarly do it.”
“Grammarly can’t do the magic I’m about to show you.”
(Also, that wasn’t my exact reply. He is now learning what “artistic license” is.)
Mr Smith pops his head in.
“Apparently, the Roomba just ran over dog poop and pee.”
The eldest kid is right behind him.
“Yeah. I picked it up. It smells SO bad.”
“This is one of those times you’re so glad we have a dog, isn’t it?
Heh.
“…I am NOT taking care of it, btw.”
Shocker.
2 minutes later, the eldest pops her head back in the doorway.
“You guys! I’ve been experimenting with this new air freshener. It’s called vinegar. It’s amazing. You should come check it out. I’m going to bed by the way. Good luck with the Roomba!”
So, I sit here in this lovely little room lined with shelves overflowing with books. They’re all grateful they aren’t Out There in the rest of the downstairs that now smells like dog poop and vinegar.
You didn’t know books have feelings? Well, they do. At least, these ones do. The ones piled in stacks on the backs of the couches, on shelves and desks and counters in the main living space? They have feelings, too, and right now I’m pretty sure they’re crying.
I’m waiting.
For what, I’m not sure.
Courage, I guess.
The 8 yo thinks this post should be titled “The Reign of the Devil Dog.”
I might agree with him, except that I just wrote that post about the dog NOT reigning the roost here, so no. I’m not changing the name, sorry kid.
I figured out what I’m waiting for. The smell. It’s found its way in here.
The books are starting to look at little sternly. Such a smell does NOT belong in the library.
I’m sorry, Books, but there are some things that you just do not want to do.
Tummy bug + footie-jammies goes in this same category, but we haven’t needed footie jammies since we moved to Hawaii, and we also haven’t had a tummy bug get a little out of control like that in years.
I’m out of practice, you guys.
If only Grammarly could take care of this, I would gladly subscribe!
GLOVES!
Purple plastic disposable medical gloves.
YES. Redemption!
Like my mother before me, I can do anything wearing gloves.
Come, filthy Roomba, we shall gut your insides and save this house from your foul stench! We shall conquer this unimaginable horror and come out triumphant! This nasty endeavor may put a dent in my evening, but not in my soul, thanks to the powerful forcefield generated by those mighty, magical gloves.
Also, we shall open all the windows and throw an entire bottle of lemon oil in the diffuser. That, too, shall be done.
Heaven help me, here we go…
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