It was a glorious 72-degree day. The sun was shining. The boys were sound asleep. I was having some quiet “me” time. What more could you want from a Sunday?
Perhaps I’ll write…but what about…
“Don’t worry! I got this,” thundered the universe around me.
And with that the afternoon silence was broken by a crashing, screeching, THUD.
A moment later I heard a triumphant toddler shout “PIRATE!”
For those of you who haven’t picked up on it by now, this was a rather clear indicator that naptime was very much over. (Possibly forever.)
I ran upstairs. Search was standing center in his bed. The nightstand was no longer located anywhere near the location in which it sat when naptime initiated. The room was strewn with stuffed animals – clearly all made to walk the plank from their red plastic toy bin.
“I’m a pirate, mommy,” decreed Search.
“Yoho pirates!” declared Destroy as he popped up from inside the toy bin.
I asked him if he’d found any buried treasure in that bin.
“You need take me to Disneyland, mommy,” Search informed me. Well played, little one.
With that, the four of us (me, muppets and Destroy’s new BFF Mickey the Mouse doll) descended the stairs.
Three episodes of Jake and the Neverland Pirates later (oh stop judging me, we go outside all the time) and it was time for dinner.
“French toast!” came the familiar daily request. (I have no idea where they initially came up with it, but they ask for French Toast – Every. Night.) I decided to indulge my children’s desires along with what I thought would be a simple dish – omelets!
I cracked, I chopped, I sizzled.
I ran over to see if he was ok. “I did that Mommy,” he said, gesturing toward the indisputable evidence. “You need clean me. I need new shirt.” Mickey was in dire need of a bath.
He seemed ok. Rather pleased with himself even. But of course, that could also have been amusement as I sprinted up the stairs to frantically wave my unread People magazine at the smoke detector. Which would NOT stop beeping. (Shortly thereafter I discovered it was because I’d be manically fanning the wrong angry detector.)
Scrambled eggs it is! And who doesn’t love a little bit of burnt cheese with their dinner.
Both boys devoured their eggs, a family recipe that will henceforth be known as oeuf noir, while I watched like a hawk to see if any additional regurgitated pirate booty would be making an appearance.
Thankfully all appears well so far. Muppets were bathed; Mickey was laundered.
I headed upstairs to pack for a business trip. And it turns out to be rather fortuitous this upcoming particular business trip is in Orlando, Fla. Because the top-loading washer dismembered Mickey.