Thing One is almost 5, Thing Two is almost 2. I am informed that it is 5 o'clock and that our next activity will be to make a dog house for Molly, the stuffed dog that I refuse to go out to the car to retrieve. It feels a little late for construction this afternoon, amidst the play date, preschool, the lunch trip to McDonalds (yes, two days in a row). If I could only find a shoe box, but I haven't bought shoes for so long I can't remember what a shoebox looks like. The last pair of shoes I purchased were 5 inch black patent leather heels. I wear them sometimes around the house since I mostly don't go anywhere, and a walk any farther than to my car causes bleeding sores on the sides of my ankles.
I'm sure that a shoebox would make an excellent dog house, but it doesn't matter. I would spend half an hour cutting the lid, forming and gluing pieces of cardboard to fashion a roof, cut out squares for the door, windows. Maybe I would even dig around in the depths of my junk piles for a scrap of old t-shirt or an old dish rag and we would make some curtains for the dog house. Molly the dog may prefer a dog house with a pillow for a bed, and a new dog dish. I scour the house for things to use: cotton balls for stuffing, the lid from a milk jug to fill with "kibble" (Koala Crisp). I would put the fnishing touches on this complex compilation of garbage I turned into something, then, five minutes later, Thing One will take the box and toss it aside for whatever. It could be anything at this point because there is a show on about a talking submarine and somewhere in the house she found a balloon.
But this is all theoretical because I don't feel like making a dog house today. I ignored their tiny pleading just long enough to type this out and ponder the greatest mystery of life: What to make for dinner?