When the SHTF

A few nights ago when Benjamin was supposed to be getting out of his regular clothes and into his Halloween costume he was instead whooping and hollering and dancing around the house (not at all out of character for him). When he finally started doing what he was supposed to be doing the whooping, hollering, and dancing continued—despite all our protests and threats of consequences.

He pulled off his shirt and swung it above his head before launching it into the air with an emphatic, "YEEHAW!"

The shirt flew up and hit the fan, sending up a poof of dust (because I'm an A+ housekeeper) before landing on the floor with a thud. 

"Benjamin," Andrew growled in his best serious-daddy voice. "Come here."

"Okay," Benjamin sulked remorsefully.

"You are out of control," Andrew said, getting down at Benjamin's level and holding onto his shoulders to steady the wild child. 

"Okay," Benjamin mumbled.

"What did you do that was wrong?"

"I threw my shirt," Benjamin said.

"Yes. You threw your shirt and your shirt hit the fan," Andrew said, suddenly fighting to maintain his composure. "And do you know what happens when the shirt hits the fan?"

"No," Benjamin said, quite confused by the dichotomy of emotions fighting for real estate on his father's face: sternness, then amusement, then back to sternness, now amusement.

"I couldn't help it," Andrew said, looking at me grinning, amusement as his own cleverness winning over the need to school his child on appropriate dressing etiquette. "I just had to take it. That was sit-com-level hilarity. I couldn't just let it pass by." Then stern-Andrew reappeared to finish lecturing Benjamin. 

"Nothing good," Andrew finished. "Nothing good ever happens when the shirt hits the fan. Now, do you want to stand in the corner or do you want to get dressed?"

"I want to get dressed," Benjamin sniffed.

"Then stop goofing off and get dressed," Andrew admonished.

This little boy is sweet but he needs so much admonishing...

I've gotten so used to having an extra adult in the house the past few weeks. Now that Grandma's gone and Rosie's gone, I kind of feel like the shirts are hitting the fan over and over again this morning. And it's only my first day alone with the kids! Eek!

(But I have a feeling that he's acting extra special because of all the Halloween excitement. One can hope.)

Hashtag: bowl of cereal on the floor. Hashtag: broken wooden spoon due to hitting a bench while sword fighting with his baby sister. Hashtag: three hours to put away the clean dishes. Hashtag: driving me crazy in general.

(Oh! And one of the funniest parts of this story is when Rachel asked me to explain what was so funny, so I told her that there's a saying about "poop hitting the fan," only they don't say poop. "And as you can imagine," I said, "It would get pretty messy if poop literally hit the fan." Five minutes later, well after the conversation had ended and Rachel had walked away, she started laughing. "I get it!" she said. "I figured out what the not-poop word was!")