Last night I pulled Elliot's sheet and bedspread up and over him, lifted them high up like a parachute, and let them float back on top of him.
"How did you get so good at that?" he asked.
"So good at what?"
"So good at... making beds..." He trailed and snickered because, yes, silly.
"I guess I've made a lot of beds, Buddy. Lots of bed-making practice made me who I am today."
Louis chimed from his bed across the room. "It's her talent. I can think of two talents Mom has: making beds and cleaning. Do you have any other talents, Mom?"
"Hmmm, maybe." I had been stretched all evening. Toys everywhere, laundry, tantrums, dishes, tossed stuffed animals, dinner dumped across the floor, crying, whining, Sam not home, and blah, blah, blah. The little sister is three, you know. I was feeling talented at yelling.
Elliot added, "I know another one. She is talented at being the best mom."
Score one for Mister. "Ah, thanks, Buddy."
Louis spoke again, "And she's an artist! You're a really good artist, Mom."
Add a point for the peanut.
I said goodnight, made myself some toast and poured some Perrier and lemon over ice.