I got out of the shower this morning to find my dear, sweet daughters embroiled in a bitter dispute over—are you ready for this?—dryer lint.
Seems Rose felt she had first claim to it, but she said, "I get the, um, whatchamacallit," and Beanie said, "I get the lint!"
So Jane gave it to Beanie.
The dryer lint.
From the dryer.
By the time I entered the fray, Jane had attempted (too late, oh yes, too late) to turn peacemaker by tearing the dryer lint into two pieces.
But she gave Beanie the bigger half.
Of the dryer lint.
I found myself standing in a towel, hair dripping, evening up the pieces of lint before I came to my senses and remembered that this was LINT FROM THE DRYER, as in tiny fuzzy fragments of socks and baby sleepers. Not something valuable like, say, a chocolate chip cookie or the last Twizzler in the package.
So I wadded the whole pile of fluff together and—gasp—threw it away. I say "gasp" because they did, my girls, in disbelief. The shock on their faces: you’d think I’d callously tossed out a puppy.
Wait till they find out what I do to dust bunnies.
All in a blur
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