Hugh’s taken to answering the phone at our house, which is really unusual because, up until now, I’m the only one in our family who doesn’t loath the phone. Whenever the phone rings, I know that everyone is ignoring it, like white noise in the background, or my demands to “put your shoes IN the shoe box, not just beside it!” We hear what we want to hear (Wait! What was that sound? Donuts coming out of the bakery at Day’s Market?)
I got this handwritten letter from Phoebe, who has discovered the lost art of letter writing. In its purest form, we find little notes all over the house. Like last night, when I climbed the stairs to go to bed, I found a note reminding me to cut her toenails. I’m always forgetting that, the letter reasoned. This one is warning me about the dangers of not properly monitoring Hugh:
It reads: “Mom, someone called and Hugh picked up the phon(e) and we told Hugh to give it to us but Hugh didn’t and stol(e) it from us and then the person that called hanged up. P.S. DON’T LET HUGH GET THE PHON(E)!
As mentioned in a previous post, I’ve been using January as a month with the theme to gut it out. I overdid it one day, so the next day I sought to bring balance to the force by -gasp- taking a nap. And that’s when I got the strongly-worded letter.
And so if you worried that I’m feeling pretty good about myself now that my closets and corners are all cleaned out, don’t worry. Remember, mothers everywhere, take any credit and sense of accomplishment where you can get it. And then cling to it. Like Hugh clung to that phone and wouldn’t give it back.
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