Friday chores, and I get my own wisdom thrown in my face by a pipsqueak.

Chores, pt. I 

Daddy, how do you spell "really?"

I answered her absentmindedly: R - E - A L - L -

She interrupted. Daddy! you're just telling me...help me figure it out!

——

I smiled with joy, and then got very angry at her for being smarter than me. We wrestled, and I won. Because I'm 36 and she's five, and I'm way bigger.

Chores. pt. II 

She is a legitimate help with chores these days. Folding towels, gathering laundry, vacuuming...she's becoming a force, though she has decades to go before catches up with her parents:

Greatest Laundry Folders in the Universe.

He is...willing. Nothing gets him more interested in helping fold towels than a freshly-folded tower of towels that need only to be put away. Those are the ones he is interested in reverse-engineering.

But you know what? I'll take a willing spirit. It's the principle that counts: kids gotta learn how to help out.

I left the room for a few minutes. Returned, and he was snuggled up with two of his favourite things: 

his drumstick and his sister.

Their friendships with others will be eclectic and broad in the coming years, but they will always have an unshakeable foundation of loyalty and love. I know that.

What I do not know is how much longer he will insist on toting his drumstick everywhere...

everywhere.

 There are certain occupations and tasks that require, at various points, the use of two hands (such as rock climbing,), which would, ipso facto, demand that he relinquish precious drumstick from his clutched fist. Something he is loath to do these days, even in his darkest slumber.

The wind is blowing fierce and icy, and in the five seconds I stepped outside earlier, I was reminded of how glad I am to have kids to snuggle with. 

And a Countess.

Happy weekend beginning!