The other day while I was making lunch, the kids were playing in the family room located in the basement. At one point I became alarmed at the quiet (as all mothers do), and snuck down the stairs to spy. At first I was pleased to observe Thomas and Ruthie pleasantly sharing a push toy they normally fight over, until I decided the concept was too absurd to be believable so I asked a subtle, probing question: ‘What are you guys doing?’
‘We’re playing with balls!’ Ruthie announced cheerfully.
‘Okaaaay…’ I said, still not feeling comfortable about the peace and harmony.
And then Ruthie threw him under the bus. Out of the blue, as I turned to go back upstairs, she said, ‘Thomas did it.’
Bingo. Something was up.
At that point Thomas lifted up the seat of the push toy to reveal their stash of ‘balls,’ which were not actually toy balls at all, but the balls from the Christmas tree. Nearly every. single. one, in fact.
So now our tree is ball-less (as far as the kids can reach, anyway) and I’m tired of fighting it. I am certainly no Martha Stewart, and it’s actually festive in a Griswold sort of way, so I think I’ll let it be.
Merry Christmas everyone!