I mopped my floors today. I started in the kitchen, because if I didn’t get to finish it was the room I wanted done the most. I managed to get through them all and finished in the upstairs bathroom.
I came back downstairs to find Fiona outside on the back patio and a nice little mound of dirt in the middle of my still damp, just mopped floor.
“No.” I scolded. “No, we don’t bring dirt on Mommy’s nice, clean floor. No.”
“It’s a nice hole.” She corrected me, telling me what she thought I ought to be focusing on.
“Mommy worked hard on the floors to get them clean.” I continued, “We don’t bring dirt inside. No!”
“It a very round hole.” She says thoughtfully, “And a little deep.”
“Fiona!” I’m so stern I sound a little mean, even to me. “You may not bring dirt inside!”
“It okay. I forgive you.” She coaches again and she goes back to digging in the dirt with a stick.
I have to laugh, because she’s right. It is okay. I do forgive her. It’s not so very important to have clean floors. And, after all, it is a very nice hole.