A couple of weeks ago, while at my mom's house, I went downstairs to what we call, "The Bunk Room," but you might call it, "The Giant Room in Which is Kept Hundreds of Toys." It's usually a very fun room: a couple of bunk beds--a giant doll house--rocking horses--legos--hot wheels--baby dolls--a giant bookshelf filled with children's books... everything with a tidy little spot to call home.
This night, however, all of the blankets, pillows, and sheets were off of the beds, and all of the rocking horses, legos, hot wheels, books and etc. were on the beds. It looked pretty bleak.
My three-year-old nephew, Luke, was the only one down there (although this was clearly the work of the masses). Before I could enlist his help he cut me to the chase, "Aunt Reni, can you help clean up this mess?"
I made the mistake of making sure I heard him correctly by repeating back to him, "Can I help clean up the mess?"
Because he answered, "Okay," and ran up the stairs.
He got me. I had asked if I could help clean up. And he had given his wholehearted consent. So I cleaned up--but I had a reason to laugh while I did.
