This past weekend, Viv was just hanging out by our ottoman, with her awesome ponytails, while Jack took random shit from the kitchen and rearranged it in other places in the house.
Hello dirty dishtowel.
Viv was oblivious, obsessed with her sippy cup of “Mil? Mil? Mine? Mil?” which is what she says 99 percent of the time. (The other 1 percent of the time she says “Baby” or “bye” or is hitting me.)
Then she saw it. Oh beautiful, dirty green dishtowel, lovingly arranged on a cast-off old cream container I found at a junk store and spraypainted in our driveway.
But Jack wasn’t going to share.
They already know how to protect themselves because they have to walk by Harley’s huge wagging tail every day.
Jack pushed her away from his gorgeous arrangement, saying, “No, she doesn’t WANNA have it! No, she don’t want it!”
Uh, clearly she does, buddy.
And the baby gets what the baby wants (which is what my sisters have said about me, the baby of our family, for all 37 years of my life).
Oh Viv, perhaps you should want more from life than a dishtowel? We’ll work on that.
That is one shit-eating toddler grin. And her hair is ridiculous.
But of course, it was just an old dishtowel, and who really wants that?
Off to find more crap of Jack’s to get into.
Jack quickly got over his frustration with his baby sister, though. He’s very forgiving.
They’re pretty cute. And I did make them wash muddy dog prints off the floor, each with their own wet dishtowel, this week. I mean, really, let’s take advantage of their desire to please and their love of dishtowels. And you know, of child labor.