Kids are useful

After almost three long winters of ice cold Saturday mornings hanging around the living room, I finally discovered an activity for Max that keeps us moving and even pays off for the household in general. That activity is mopping. Max likes mopping a lot, primarily because it allows him to mess around with a bucket of water inside. I find it satisfying myself. The floor starts off dirty, soapy water is applied, and *blam* the floor's clean.

Max has been testing like the Princeton Review lately, and so of course this mopping session ended with splashing and the pouring of yucky water. Oh well. It killed 15 minutes. Oh, and the floor was clean for the first time in months. His other big area of being troublesome is to refuse to tell us about his day all of a sudden.


Me: What did you do at school today?
Max: I can't tell you.
Me: Huh? Why can't you tell me?
Max: I can't talk now. I'll tell you later. In a minute.

Last night at dinner, as he was picking the mini-marshmallows out of a tepid mug of Swiss Miss, I just gave up and changed the subject. I asked him about whether he wanted the cocoa or just the marshmallows.

"I want all the marshmallows," he said, holding one up. "This is mines."
"Not 'mines,' I said. "'Mine.'"
"No," he protested. "Mine!
"Oh, no, Pal," I said. "It is yours. But we don't say 'mines.' It's 'mine.'"
"It is not yours!" he yelled. "It is mine marshmallow!"

I let it go. Anyone who mops the kitchen floor at 7 on a Saturday can have his marshmallow.