I’ve stopped going barefoot in my kitchen. Too many crumbs. Too many things to do to do anything about the crumbs. My eyes and my time are directed at the computer. Click, click, click. Crumbs on my feet.
I can hear the kids downstairs with their vroom vroom noises. Wait? Is that an “I’m hurt” cry? No, not this time. I’m relieved, yes that the cry isn’t one I need to run to, but I’m relieved they are occupied without me. Without the TV. It makes me feel less guilty. They’re playing, old fashioned, get on the floor, run trucks back and forth against the carpet playing.
It’s just a matter of time, I know it is, before I hear their step, step, steps up the stairs. Click, get a glass of milk, click, click, break up a fight, click, “I’m sorry Carson, will you tell me that again, I didn’t hear what you said the first time?” He knows better. He knows about the crumbs. They stick to his feet, too.
I wonder where the broom is?