They mean well

Well, I caught the bubonic plague, but it looks like I’m going to recover. As I write this, my two littlest boys, Isaac and Isaiah, have taken it upon themselves to clean the house. First there is the predictable fighting over the vacuum cleaner: “No Isaac! I do the cweaner! I do the cweaner! I DO THE CWEANER!!!!”

Then Isaac decides the vacuum cleaner bag must be full. I don’t realize this until it’s too late. So we spend some time cleaning the kitchen floor and putting the vacuum cleaner back together. Then there is more fighting over vacuum cleaner rights. I must arbitrate.

Isaac decides to dust, giving Isaiah free reign over the vacuum cleaner. I suppose in theory this should yield a result like one of those random-motion vacuum cleaner robots, if only the boy weren’t behaving like Rainman with OCD, rubbing the vacuum cleaner again and again and again over the same spot of carpet.

Next Isaiah decides to dust, because he sees Isaac dusting. They are two whirling dervishes with their rags and brushes. Now I am sneezing, because they aren’t transferring the dust from shelf to cloth so much as mixing the dust around. “Aren’t we helpful Dad?” Isaac asks.

“Yes. How about some Sesame Street?”

“Yaaay! Sesame Street!”

And now I need a nap.


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