1415
(1 vote, average 5.00 out of 5)

That pretty well sums it up: the sacred and the mundane. I live a life of diapers, discussions, and barn-filthy floors. It’s all harmless material. We use cloth diapers. Suga-momma and I were talking to a friend about it- she just couldn’t get her head around having her hands in poop. “Dude, it’s just a little poop.”
The dining room floor is another matter. We have hardwood floors- they were absolutely perfect when we moved in. Quartersawn fir, with a clear finish. The grain would shimmer like a weird hologram sticker when the sun struck. I love wood. But that was before. Before we started dropping oatmeal on it, and spaghetti, and crayon pieces, and dust-bunnies, and pushing the couch away from the wall so we could run around it in circles. That was before we started launching little matchbox cars in high trajectories so they would bury themselves in the floor, leaving pits. Before we started pushing BIG cars down the stairs, just to observe chaos in action. That was before.
The walls are marked, already! With tire tracks, with the small scratches from my guitar cases, which lean against the wall in the corner. The table is pathetically scarred. Guitar picks tease me from the cold-air returns. At least they’re not lonely. There lie also a small Nemo, several small time coins, and peanuts. And the floor register cover from the upstairs hallway. Yeah. Upstairs. Mo took up the register in his mighty hand, and turned it vertical. Then, noting the weight of gravity, and the dark vastness of the furnace, he dropped it. Right down through the wall. I was sitting next to that very wall, working dutifully at my computer (Facebook or Craigslist, I’m sure), when the house came down around my head.
Calmly, I stood up from my repose, and walked quietly up the stairs. Tigger reported that Mo had dropped the floor register cover through the floor. And he thinks maybe a watch too.
“Mo? Did you do this?”
“(nodding, thumb in mouth) Mo dit it,” he said around his thumb.
I won’t detail what immediately followed. Skipping.
When the maelstrom quieted, I again walked calmly down to the basement, expecting to find a smoking, creaking pile of aluminum ductwork and a small brown register. Alas, there was nothing but cobwebs and two underfed, and perhaps more tragically, undereducated mousers eager for the opportunity to explain their cases.
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