Of course I only have myself to blame on that very noisy morning of extreme busyness. When I am in the vortex of extreme busyness I revert to type and my brain returns to it’s earliest functions, basic. It’s one of those mornings where everyone appears to be in flight, high speed rockets without traffic control, and so loud that synapses freeze over, numb. I look at the pile of books purchased from Scholastic in support of the school fundraiser and wonder if I will ever witness anyone calmly absorbed in a book? I was so sure that book on body parts would entertain someone, maybe more than one. As always, I am wrong.
My youngest son flits between the two downstairs bathrooms with the toilet plungers firmly in his grasp, one in each hand as we have temporarily regressed to the stick stage of development. It is a common symptom of stress and anxiety. If I had a talisman of my own, I’m q uite sure I would take a grip myself. Meanwhile his older brother chortles to his newly homemade, first ever time, aeroplane paper model as he soars from room to room making brrrring noises, eyes glued to the flightless contraption in his hand, way above his head as he crashes into every obstacle that stands in the way of his feet and movement. If your eyes are on high, then your legs are on the down low and the net result is a tangle. My youngest daughter charges up and down the stairs winding up the dog to fever pitch. Although Thatcher doesn’t bark, he is big, big and hairy and much too large to travel and 25 mph in narrow confines. My elder daughter continues her enterprise with the ancient sewing machine at the dining room table in the centre of the house. The sewing machine that she uses was the first ever manufactured in American and hence the engine in motion rattles the floorboards that travel the length of the house. Their father is nowhere to be seen, quite wisely in my opinion. For one pin, I would happily jump ship myself.
You would think with the ambient noise level that I would be deaf to the cries of death throes, but we parents are well practices in the art of recognition.
“Aghhhh it is being a “floater!”
I skate in my socks to the bathroom at warp speed where my son stands before the mirror still clutching the toilet plungers with his nose one inch away from the mirror. I check the toilet behind him. “Empty.” I take a deep breath, since my initial fear is all clear.
“I am “contaminated?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I am have dah swine flu?”
“Never. It’s just a little speck in your eye love.”
So this is just to say that this is not a book to be avoided if you also suffer from OCD tendencies, rather it is a very useful teaching tool and funny to boot.
I would just like to point out that our toilet plungers are, by necessity, the two cleanest toilet plungers in Christendom, due to a surfeit of consumer mis-use.