My Father’s Revenge.


What to begin with…. I’ve got so many little stories, but nothing really grabs me as a post-starter…

Do I start with the fact that Biggest is having tea with me this morning? Possibly, but it’s a very short story. It’d go something like… Biggest had tea with me this morning, and it’s on the adorable side because I found a little mug, and he’s having mini sips.

Or maybe I start with being in love with my mini-fridge. I could stretch it to a half a paragraph, but really, it boils down to putting all of Biggest’s snacks for the day in there so he can get them himself. I could even add that I’m unbelievably excited because he put his dishes back in it when he was done with them, and no cheerios have hit the floor yet. But that probably wouldn’t make for a whole update.

Hmm…

I could begin with the nap saga of yesterday. But having to leave Biggest with his Daddy instead of coming to see Grammy because of a bad attitude, and subsequently breaking my heart because he was visibly disappointed with himself for the first time ever kind of leads into a sad post. Maybe I won’t start with that.

Oh! I could start with reading The Chronicles of Narnia to Biggest before bedtime! Nope, still too short. The only thing it would express was my excitement at reading literature to an almost-three-year-old.

There’s always a shopping trip to mention. Finding Biggest a set of the original Tinker Toys was pretty epic. And so was Littlest’s stacking animals. I was pretty excited at all the new stuff my favorite toy store had just put out. But even then, it’s not really “full update worthy”.

Aha!

Yep, that’s definitely it.

Welcome to Monday, everyone! Inner monologue aside, today’s story requires a back story.

Long, long, long, long, long (12 years) ago, I was finally allowed to play video games with my dad. My sister and I had been permitted to watch for a couple of years already, but when we turned 13, we were able to actually pick up a controller and play James Bond for the Nintendo 64. I guess we’d watched a little more closely than my parents believed, because when my dad picked his usual sniping spot, and hunkered down, he wasn’t concerned. I, on the other hand, after being shot once, knew exactly where he was, found him, and shot him rather matter-of-factly. Considering that my sister and I had studied up, it wasn’t that big of a deal.

Not so long, long, long, long ago (yesterday), Biggest was finally allowed to help me with the dishes. I guess he’s watched the process a little more closely than anticipated, because quite frankly, he outdid me. I was on my way in to the kitchen to direct the proceedings (meaning I wash and give him little things to do) and in no uncertain terms, I was handed two mugs to empty. I barely had time to put the plug and soap in the sink before they were plopped in, followed by more mugs for me to empty. That child had me running for the next 20 minutes. The sink filled up so fast, I almost couldn’t keep up. The only way I managed was because he realized he could take his time picking which dish I got next, and I, thanks to my ingenious “mother brain”, thought to put a couple extra towels on the counter so I wouldn’t have to dry while I was washing. Daddy, you got your revenge. My dish-washing skills got tossed upside down by my 2-year-old.

Actually, the last time I washed dishes that fast was when I was 14 and my parents were coming home after an afternoon out. Knowing that she’d given us all afternoon, and knowing that we likely hadn’t started yet, my mother kindly gave us a 5 minute warning call. That was what you call total-panic-speed-washing.

I just never expected to get a cardio workout washing dishes with Biggest.

That is all.
The Handler.

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