It all began as a few handfuls of pebbles; pl-ink, plank, plunk. From there it has grown into an uninterrupted succession of vandalism and high treason against the ruler of the house. The wretched storm drain. My children are unexplainable drawn to it. I simply ask that contents thrown down the drain remain small in size and generally useless. A simple, reasonable rule entirely ignored.Today the garden stake, yesterday the Old Navy sock (a lovely shade of green). The day before a twelve pack of Crayola watercolor paints. The most agonizing loss aside the set of keys, complete with remote auto-start were 10 perfectly formed, tenderly cared for Peony buds. Only warmth-staved Alaskans can appreciate the value of a summer bloom. In one swift deed the storm drain became enemy #1.
The controlling allure over my children I fail to comprehend. They are willing to risk life and limb (literally) to feed it. Nothing begged, threatened, or warned has curbed the three disturbing sounds: pl-ink, plank, plunk.
1 comment:
you are too cute. I had no idea putting stuff down the storm drain was so fun, I'm so picking out some stuff of my own to bring over and try out. Don't worry, I'll keep it small and unimportant, those were the rules, right? luv you
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