Last week I finally cracked open several boxes of kids’ clothes and pulled out the little boy stuff. It was all the little sweaters and t-shirts and adjustable-waisted pants that I’d been holding onto in case we ever had another baby boy. Now that Mary is officially a year old, I’m fairly confident she’s staying a girl. That makes two girls in this house and a need for more and more closet space. So I hauled FIVE boxes of boys clothing into the dining room, sorted it according to size and packed it all into the back of a friend’s station wagon. Sweet.
I only had to break down two or three empty boxes and bring them out to the recycling bin and my job would be done. “Ah,” I thought to myself, “I’ll get around to that later.”
I left the empty boxes stacked neatly in the corner of the dining room overnight, dear readers.
Here are the crime scene photos:
Now, I’m no CSI agent, but there appear to be children’s books, greeting cards and art gallery brochures strewn across the floor.
And on chairs.
And in boxes.
Not so much on shelves.
There weren’t many books on the one kiddie bookshelf in the dining room or on ANY of the shelves up in their bedroom or down in the playroom. And ALSO, when did Colum start reading Macleans? All this time he could have been catching me up on current affairs!
But the jokes on them. Because there was no way I was going to sift and sort through an entire bookshelf’s worth of kids’ books without weeding them out. I easily filled a box full of old colouring books and magazines, stray pages, comic book covers and anything torn to pieces or shredded to bits.
This time I brought them out to the recycling bin right away. I wasn’t born yesterday.
There was also some sweet baby cousin action over the Thanksgiving weekend. For your viewing pleasure:
It’s a bad idea to encourage the kids to play with the pantry just so I get to clean that out too, right?
