So THAT'S What It Takes!

I have stumbled upon a sure-fire way to get my children to help clean up without complaining--evidently their dear, beloved mother must be in imminent danger! Who knew?!

We have an ignored imprecise rule in our house that states, "There is to be no food or drink consumed upstairs." I say this rule is imprecise because Randy and I execute our parental right to violate this rule all the time. 'Cause where's the fun in following all the rules you lay down for your kids? I mean, come on!

Seriously, though, what transpired yesterday warmed the cockles of my heart just a bit, even as I was mentally picking out songs for my funeral. Darcy had brought home a note reminding me that "Spring Pictures" would be taken on Friday and, as such, Friday would be a "Free Dress" day. And to a fashion-forward-thinking gal like Darcy, there was no time like the present to choose an outfit for Friday's photo shoot.

Peyton had just opened one of those yogurt-smoothie-drink-things which she promptly abandoned, so I did what any mother with an overdeveloped sense of self-preservation would do: I snagged it for myself! However, I quickly discovered why Peyton had cast the bottled dairy drink aside--it really wasn't all that good. If you want a good smoothie, you've gotta add ice! So I filled a glass with crushed ice and poured the yogurt mixture in and . . . aaaaahhhhhhhhh. Well, not really, but it was an improvement.

Meanwhile, Darcy was insisting that I had to come upstairs NOW to help her pick out an outfit for Friday. So I grabbed my smoothie and made my way to the stairs and . . . oh, did I mention I was wearing flip-flops? In my world, "Stairs + Flip-Flops = Disaster Waiting to Happen." The last time my flip-flops and a flight of stairs had a dust-up, I fell down said stairs and nearly broke my hand! And let me tell you, this was no less disastrous. I had almost made it to the promised land when my flip-flop snagged the third stair from the top and, as if in a movie, I saw pink yogurt and crushed ice go flying out of my cup and splatter everything in the immediate vicinity. It looked like a bottle of calamine lotion had been poured on the stairs.

Well, you can imagine my reaction: "Your dad is going to KILL me! No, he's really going to kill me!" I said not another word but went straight down to the kitchen to retrieve a hand towel and some cleaning supplies, muttering as I went. I chanted "He's going to kill me/He's going to kill me/He's going to kill me . . ." when what to my wondering eyes should appear but two of my children, quick on the draw, already down on their hands and knees with towels they had fetched from the upstairs bathroom, scrubbing furiously at the soggy mess. What's this?!

I joined them at their task and repeated again, "Your dad is going to murder me" and Tyler snapped, "Stop saying that!" as though my saying it might actually cause it to come true. Awww, what a sweet boy! And the good news is, all signs of the smoothie-related incident have been eradicated and I am alive to tell about it! Until one of my kids rats me out, that is.