There must be a booger fairy running loose in my house. Today was “wash the walls” day. I understand fingerprints, I understand food smears, I understand shoe swipes. I do not understand crusty booger-colored bits stuck to the wall that need to be scraped off. I don’t wipe my nose on the wall. I’m pretty sure Hal doesn’t wipe his nose on the wall. And yet, somehow, we get boogers on the wall. This disgusts me and makes me despair that my children will ever grow into normal human beings. Unless, scary thought, normal human beings do wipe their noses on the wall and Hal and I are the bizarre ones.
Strange things happen at our house. Who wiped all the paint brushes off on the walls? Couldn’t have been my sweet cherubs. They were busy composing sonnets to my beauty. Who played Prairie Family and rolled all the dress ups in mud, then washed them in the tub and left the whole lot sitting there for 5 days? Not my children. They were contemplating the relevance of String Theory. Who took every single cup outside to make magic potions and then forgot about them, even when I asked where all the cups had gone? No idea. Cups wander around. It’s a strange, strange world. These are the things parents of famous people never admit.
Question: “Did you know at a young age that Tom was destined to become a famous yet seriously deranged actor?”
Response: “Why, yes, I did. He often pretended he was a snot monster. We’d find boogers all over the house. Under couches, inside the fridge...”
I bet Einstein’s parents never had to re-wash his prairie girl costumes.
I want to know where the Massage Fairy is. I wouldn’t mind a no-strings-attached visit from her. And if she washed the walls on the way out, I’d send her a Christmas card.