I'm sweeping up the floor after afternoon snack (chex mix for the bug, cheerios for the polliwog), which has left considerable debris underfoot. Halfway through area recon, I realize that my son is crawling across the floor at top speed, not to observe my progress, but to try to snag the cheerios out of the refuse pile. I never envisioned myself sliding my nine-month-old across the floor with a broom, but he is super-fast and I couldn't quite get the sweeping-into-the-dustpan done before he'd managed to get at least two into his mouth. Ah, germs. We know them well.
Later in the evening, the bug is begging for media time, specifically for a movie neither Matt nor I want to watch. It is just before dinner, and using my best imitation-sad voice, I say, "Fine. Go watch your movie for ten minutes, while I get dinner ready, all alone, without any help." She instantly bounds back down the stairs over to Matt, and says, "Daddy, won't you help Mama make dinner? Are you going to make her make dinner by herself? You should help her." (Note: she did not get out of kitchen-help duty, but she did get bonus points for the subtle approach to passing the buck that she's clearly learned from her mother.)
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