literal sons equals interesting combination of kitchen misunderstanding.
I was working at my computer the other day. It was supposed to be room time. I have realized that with the boys' increasing ages and growing interests in various independently directed learning activities their father and I have provided plus the spate of good weather we are having, that there is a proportionately rising amount of room time leakage.
Meaning that what was formerly a solid two hours I had to get complete thoughts together for spillage is now punctuated with room time excursions of aforesaid children. To retrieve duct tape or packing tape or red Sharpies or rulers or construction paper or go outside for a self esteem damaging game of dodgeball or you get the picture.
Anyway, during that punctuated time, I was working at my computer. (I am trying to focus here.) And Chess had slipped downstairs to get some peanut butter. Being a lover of the peanutty goodness myself, I didn't refuse that request. I did remind him though that he would need to get a clean spoon out of the dishwasher. And the dishwasher would need to be emptied. And after he had the peanut butter, if he wasn't going back to room time to please go outside so I could finish Working on The Computer.
To which he replied, "But it's a million degrees!"
To which I retorted, "No, it is not. You can go and look at the thermometer and tell me exactly how hot it is."
There. Told him. I thought that was the end of it.
About half an hour later. He walks in with the grill thermometer to show me the temperature.
Of the dishwasher.
Sigh. I'm so missing uninterrupted, unpunctuated room time. And the complete thoughts. Well, they are lacking.