The Fruit of My Womb is Bananas

I received a magical compliment the other day from the Kid's teacher. She told me that she (the teacher) had accidentally dropped a container of paint on the classroom floor, and the paint spilled everywhere. Thirteen pairs of eyes stared at her, transfixed.

My child walked over to the sink and got some paper towels and started cleaning up.

Oh, how I love a child who likes to clean. Last weekend, she came home and was bothered by some fingerprints on the glass balcony doors, and asked for some Windex and a paper towel. Did I deny her? Certainly not.

She sprayed and wiped for a good half hour. I didn't have the heart to tell her that cleaning glass in direct sunlight with a generic spray cleaner is almost guaranteed to cause streaking. She seemed so happy.

She has her own "Malena towels" under the sink for spills, and my parents stare at her when she goes running for them to clean up a ring on the coffee table when they don't use a coaster.

One of her favorite toys as a baby was a vacuum cleaner, and her dad would roll his eyes as I cheerfully dusted, vacuumed, and Febreezed up a storm with Mini-Me and her Bubble Vac joyfully trailing behind me.

Today, she needed to bring something to school that started with the letter "D". I was stumped. Disease? Dystentery? Dialysis. Dementia. (I've been watching far too much House lately.) Decahedron. Duluth. I got nothin'.

D is for Darth Vader, dude.