Three Minutes

As I was fishing out boxes of Christmas decorations from underneath the stairs, Logan came whizzing past me with both arms full of something.

"Daddy, set the timer for three minutes, okay?"

"Sure.  What for?" I asked.

"The guys pushed me while I was spinning," he said as he mounted the stairs and continued mumbling.

Oh brother.  Can't you and your brothers get along for two minutes in a row?  Wait a minute!  He refers to his older brothers as "the boys," not "the guys."  And three minutes is his time-out allotment.  I have no idea what's going on.

"What guys?  What's going on?"

"These guys are in trouble and they have to sit on the rug," he said, indicating his payload.

Gotcha!  I'm sure I don't even want to know but at least I'm back on track.

"Okay, I'll set the timer," I hollered at the back of his head as he disappeared up the stairs.

I never did set the timer and he never asked me about it.  A half hour later I walked past the "naughty mat", also known as "the rug," and there were four of his stuffed animals and a wind-up hopping Easter egg toy serving out their punishment.  It's a sad day when you have to put your own stuffed animals in time-out.

- 11 December 2011