I flipped on my garbage disposal to hear the sickening grind of metal against metal. Further investigation with a flashlight revealed that there were toenail clippers there.
In the disposal.
Toenail clippers.
Remembering that six-year-old Joseph had been clipping his toenails earlier, I easily ascertained the guilty party. He confessed, and I scheduled a repair, to the tune of $167.
I explained to the boys that until the repair was complete, we could not put any solid foods in the disposal, and Joseph shrugged. "That's okay, Mom," he said. "I'll just use the one upstairs instead."
And I would've appreciated the boy's flexibility, except that we do not have a garbage disposal upstairs. Suddenly the slow drain in my master bath sink is making more sense.
That boy.
He is the same little creature who instigated the Great Mini-Van Incident of 2006, and he once poured chocolate syrup on the dog to "find out if she'd run faster." (Incidentally, a dog covered in chocolate syrup not only runs faster, she also rubs up against your sofa more quickly and efficiently.)
He has poured honey on my carpet and stuck semi-chewed Starburst to my wall. He has ridden laundry baskets down my staircase and he has dropped crayons down my air-conditioning vent.
He has made my hair gray and my checkbook empty, and he has made my heart very full.
I looked into his brown eyes as he shrugged at me tonight, and I laughingly wondered to myself how much this child has cost us. As I kissed the top of his grass-smelling head, I knew he was worth it. Every penny.
