1. No, seriously, Brother John–are you sleeping or not? Because if you’re not, I’m calling 911.
2. Is anything going to be done about the strange banjo player in the kitchen with Dinah, or are we all just okay with this?
3. I still have so many questions about your ear elasticity–did you say that do hang low? And if so, do they wobble to and fro? And finally, if you don’t mind me asking, are you able to tie them in knots and/or bows?
4. Is there a maximum per customer on this Hot-Cross-Buns-for-a-penny promotion? Because if not, I’ll take a baker’s dozen.
5. Can you tell me how to actually get to Sesame Street?
There’s no gentle way to say this–I can smell the difference between my son and daughter’s fecal matter.
I could describe their distinct aromas for you in gag-reflex-inducing detail, but have chosen not to in case you are currently eating, or plan to ever again. (After all, you should never bite the hand that reads you.)
Not sure how many of you know this, but I am a world class dishwasher. This is not due to any concerted effort on my part–I’ve just wound up logging my 10,000 hours since the Twins’ birth, conquering mountains of soiled bottles, Sippy Cups, and high-chair trays on a tri-daily basis.
Thus, on the morning of the Twincident in question, I had stealthily ducked into the kitchen to knock out the breakfast dishes. Despite both having nasty colds and ear infections, the Twins were in excellent spirits having just been fed, and babbled baby limericks at each other while surveying the playroom toyscape. Since the Twins made their outside-of-Mommy debut, we rarely have more than two minutes to eat human-style at a proper table anyway, so we chose to convert our house’s “dining room” to a playroom, which has worked swimmingly at moments like this, when I can watch them in the next room while still actively pursuing 20,000 hours.
Having successfully sanitized the load’s umpteenth and umptieth items, I Deion-Sanders-High-Stepped from the sink to the playroom threshold.
And that’s when it hit me.
The Wall of Stank.