Technically, Monday is my day off. Although with 3 kids you're never really off, just in various states of calm depending on when, where, and how they get home from school and when, where, and how they are supposed to get to practices, church, school events and the next birthday party one of them is invited to.
Most Mondays (unless it's the week I drive Ciera and her cousin to school) I chain the door behind Ang so Trot can't escape, make sure the pantry, fridge, and medicine cabinet are locked up so Trot can't wreak havoc, and lay back down in the bed for another 30 minutes of rest. I don't sleep because I'm afraid I'll wake up with a dead bird, Trot, and a block of Cheddar next to me.
Yet even with all the planning, locking, and fervent prayers he somehow finds a way to circumvent the system.
As soon as I heard the ice maker rattling out cubes I shot out of bed yelling his name at the top of my lungs and as I came out the door he bolted into the dining room, leaving the dish rag and the approximately 5,389 ice cubes he was holding to fall onto my brand new hardwood floors and scatter to the Four Winds.
I have no idea why he was trying to put ice cubes in a dishrag or what he was planning to do with them.
All I know is as I was picking up ice cubes in my boxer shorts at 7:45 in the morning on my day off while Trot hid himself somewhere it occurred to me that I'm about one more day off away from completely losing whatever is left of my sanity.
And to think.
At one point I actually wanted FOUR of them.
My Controversial Christmas Tradition.
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