Don't Blame Me!
And as soon as I am back on my feet to chop this, stir that and heat something up, the requests start pouring in about putting in a DVD, helping someone in the bathroom, breaking up a fight, getting down a toy, seeing something funny on TV, listening to a joke, watching someone jump really high! ... All while running outside to play. Then back in. And then back out. And back in. And out ...
You wouldn't blame me, then, for completely losing my mind as I start feeling something gritty underneath my feet as I make my way between the stove, the refrigerator, the cutting board and my wine glass.
"Sand! They have tracked in sand! In the kitchen! I'm trying to cook here! I don't have time to sweep up sand now! I've got noodles to boil! And what is that burning smell?!"
As I stomp toward the broom muttering complaints about "those kids", I realize it was me tracking in the "sand" the whole time by way of an UPSIDE-DOWN salt shaker in my right hand.
I still blame the kids for this one (they have made me crazy!), but I wouldn't mind if you put me in time-out. Actually, I beg you!