I have the hardest time keeping little fingers out of the later.
I only wish I was talking about my almost sixteen-month-old. Sadly, I am talking about my trio of six-year-olds.
I was unloading the dishwasher over the weekend when I was overcome by a hideous odor. I turned around to find one of my sons holding the cat litter scooper, filled, of course, with cat poop.
"We've got to clean this out," he said authoritatively, dumping half of the clumps into the kitchen trash can. Unfortunately, he misjudged the width of the trash can, which resulted in the other half of the turds being dropped onto my bare feet.
"Sometimes I just want to stick my light saber in there," my other son said a day later, eyeing the litter box wistfully.
This morning, I was cleaning out the litter box and was not at all surprised to find a tennis ball among its contents.
"I thought the cat might want something to keep her busy while she's doing her business," Cortlen explained.
"Really?" he asked.