Despite a couple of glorious sunny days in the past week, the clouds returned with their gloomy drizzle yesterday. Erin cruised the house with a baby blue balloon. Somehow, her balloon came in contact with the wall where Mommy's Polish pottery saucers live in perfect peace 363 days a year. (The other day involved the mister's bass guitar. It was an accident.) In my Terribly Calm voice, I asked Erin why she would possibly think it was okay to play with a balloon in the house while gesturing between the pottery on the wall, the bits of pottery on the floor.
Gathering the remaining seven saucers from their hanging hooks, I carried them off never to be seen again while we have children living at home. Returning, I measured the space on the wall covered in hangers spaced precisely for nine saucers. The measurements would ensure that I was not patching holes in the wall which would likely prolong my ire at Little Bit who was, after all, just behaving like a child who has been cooped up off and on for over a month between rain and the flu. Then I took my mad self off to the bedroom to glare at the t.v. until the mister bravely entered to suggest we go out in search of something suitable to hang over the accusingly empty Wall of Shame. The man knows me well. Filling the empty wall did wonders for my disgust with childhood foolishness. Besides, now I have somewhere to hang my apron.