So, I’m just now starting to attempt to decorate the house. Which means, basically, that I’ve ventured into the Closet of Doom and hauled out the two giant bins that hold all of our Christmas decorations and ornaments. In doing so, I also had to displace an old microwave, which proved to be extremely heavy, so I just set it on the stairs and left it there.
A, of course, was onto the bins like a moth to flame and started prying them open before I could stop her. (I’d wanted it to be a surprise, ha ha, ha ha, as if anyone could keep a toddler out of anything.) I tried, “No, don’t-” but too late, she was already in there. She said, “Oooh, Christmas decorations!”
I said, “I know, honey, but let’s not get into them now. It’s time to go upstairs to take a bath.”
She dutifully (for once) started heading up the stairs, and then stopped, checked by the sight of the microwave. “What’s that, Mommy?”
“That’s a microwave.”
“Oooh, Christmas microwave!”
If only we all were so easy to please, no?
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