Houston, we have a Problem
The boys are inspecting the chimney. They had been getting themselves some books, but they got distracted.
"No, we can't, or Mary will be mad." George seems to be worrying a lot recently about making me mad. As far as I can tell, I haven't done any serious amounts of frothing at the mouth these days, but it's a frequent theme in his conversations. I think it's more about the four-year-old who has figured out Rules than about ranting Mary.
"She won't be mad. If we don't move them, how will Santa get down?" The fact that it's mid-May doesn't seem to in any way dissuade Darcy from the urgency of his task.
"But this is where the books go! If we move them, how will we find them again?" I like the way this boy thinks. Is it true some children are just born neat?
(I need explain. Ours is, as I have said oft before, a small house. No space may go to waste, the neatly closed-off fireplace in the living room being no exception to this rule. Because it is, in essence, a painted box set into the wall, it is used to store the daycare books. Board books in the basket on the left, paper books in a pile on the right. So yes, there are books in my fireplace.)
"When Santa comes down the chimney, he will hurt himself on all those books."
"No, it's okay. Santa wears elbow and knee pads."
"Uh-huh. My daddy told me. Because chimneys are scratchy inside there because of all the bricks."
This satisfies. The boys return to their literary pursuits.