I try to keep a nice house, meaning tidy and decorated, but let’s face it: it’s nearly impossible when you have children under the age of 10.
Just this evening, I was complaining at the dinner table because someone smeared spaghetti sauce all over one of the new placemats. My husband suggested that maybe we just shouldn’t have placemats.
My left eyebrow shot up; it really does have a mind of its own at this point.
“I have the placemats to cover up all the marker and ink and scratches on this table!”, I oh-so-helpfully explained to Mark. Then, my tirade continued with “These things wouldn’t happen if I didn’t live in a house full of flying monkeys!”
Mark, not missing a beat, responded with “Well, let’s just remember who was in charge of all the flying monkeys.”
Touché, dear. If he and the kids are the flying monkeys, I suppose that does make me the Wicked Witch.
I bet she had clean placemats, though.