Kitchen Sink

Dear Hagen,

There is a particular breed of Southern woman - my mama's one, my aunt Melanie is one, and Granny Jack is the president of their organization - that's able to keep an immaculate house. Put a single running shoe in the middle of the floor, or leave a cupboard ajar, and they'll sigh and put their hands on their hips and declare, "This house is a mess." I admire cleanliness, but I did not inherit this gene, and neither did my cousin Heidi, who once said, "My mama's house is so clean, you could eat off the floor. You could eat off my floor, too, but that's because there are already some Spaghetti-O's down there." It goes without saying, I adore Heidi.

We had somebody come and look at our house today, so I had to deep clean the place, including scouring the sink. When we got back from running errands, I looked at that sparkling sink and thought, "Well, it's probably not going to be this clean again for a while. Might as well put the young'un in it."

I don't know why, but I'd never bathed either of my children in the sink before. But you loved it. In fact, you loved it so much that after I'd drained the water and come at you with a towel, you squawked at me and sat back down in protest. You're not big on telling us what you want, but you've definitely gotten good at telling us what you don't want by screaming and going limp. Thus was the case with the sink tonight. So I filled it right back up and let you sit in there with some plastic spoons and a funnel while I made dinner around you. 

I can't believe Laney left you alone and let you have fun all by yourself. 

Oh, right:

Love,

Mom