Dean has long rolled his eyes at my slovenly nature. Most of the time, he just bites his tongue and closes the cupboard doors, tosses the pajamas in the hamper, picks up the eight billion velcro rollers strewn about the bathroom floor and continues on his tidy way. He has often told me that I leave a "trail of filth" wherever I go. Usually, I let it roll right off me and under the bed with the dust bunnies. But I must admit I felt a bit sheepish today when I overheard Frankie and Dean as they encountered a giant mess of magazines in the hallway where I had left them mid-sorting to trot off to leave uncompleted some other pressing task:
Frankie: "Who did this, Daddy? Mollsie Dollsie?"
Dean: "Who do you think? Mom."
Frankie: "Our Mom?"
Dean: "Yup, our Mom."
Frankie (with disbelief): "But, Dad, she's not a BABY."