I was busy trying to convince First Daughter to return to the kitchen with her banana chocolate chip muffin (which I just knew she'd use to spread chocolate throughout the house). I heard a noise and turned to see First Son slide his chair from the table, grab the placemat, which slid to the floor (with a plate full of food and a full glass of milk), then follow it with a fantastic flip forward. He landed on his shoulder and neck, which was not fantastic. He's in tears. I'm in tears. (How could I let myself get three feet away from him?) Milk is everywhere (including dripping down First Son's hair, face and ears). First Daughter is wandering in the milk, spreading milk sock prints everywhere.
It was not fun.
And Kansas Dad was busy teaching a class.
I pulled myself together, gave First Son some Tylenol for the aches and pains I knew would stick around, and dropped everyone in the bath. Eventually the floor was clean, the kids were clean and in bed and I was (mostly) composed. But it took hours. If I could change one thing about Kansas Dad's job, it would be night classes. (Though he has a Saturday class in the fall; that might make two things. We'll have to see how it goes.)
