The other day, they rushed in to tell me that they had cleaned their playroom ALL BY THEMSELVES (in all caps because that's when the squealing reached their patented high-pitched tone-of-instant-headache).
Dubious, I allowed myself to be dragged back there, where - I have to admit - I was pretty impressed. Where once there was gobs of multi-colored plastic toys strewn across the floor, it now sparkled and shone. Even the desk and other usual collection areas were spotless.
So I did what I had to do - fixed two giant bowls of ice cream and gushed over their new skill, an attempt to implant this favorable turn of events into a possible long term habit.
And as I sat there, something occurred to me. I snuck away to take another look.
As I listened to the excited banter from the other room, bellies full of ice cream and a new sense of accomplishment, my eyes fell to the closet. I think I knew before I even opened the door, deep down in that long forgotten part of my own life - the one that used to be (I'm fairly certain) a teenager.
The pile was pretty impressive - three foot high with good stability and excellent use of color. They are still amateurs, of course. But I have a feeling that won't last long.
In the corner of my mind, I could see my Dad snickering, along with a soft voice whispering in the wind: paybacks....paybacks...paybacks...
