Yesterday, Cole woke up (in his crib, because I'm still dithering on the tent concept) with pink, puffy eyes. Conjunctivitis, said the doctor. Which was no big deal, but meant no daycare.
I dropped Ruby off, managed to squeeze a little erythromycin between Cole's goop-encrusted lids and told Gray (who's home for a few days) that, since I was taking the day off, we could do whatever he wanted.
I think we can safely say that Gray is just about the only 18-year-old who would, unprompted, suggest that we reorganize the kitchen cabinets.
But he did and we did, moving boxes, jars and cans to the counter, tossing the stuff that had expired back in 1998, wiping down and repainting the shelves and putting everything back in a new, much more esthetically pleasing arrangement. Including, yes, alphabetized spices.
So you don't get the wrong idea, neither of us is particularly into cleaning and Gray's own room is usually almost as much of a wreck as my closet.
But the beautifully organized cabinets? They make me almost as happy as a clam at high tide. Which is about the best any of us can hope for.
eta: if you want to see far too many iterations of the photo above (plus a t.rex v. vw battle to the death!) check out my flickr photostream.