Hosed

Yesterday started out just beautifully.




















The sun was radiant and absolutely everywhere.















Our flowers were thirsty in their pots.





















Our Abby did not consume even one of her own hair accessories.


We were having a glorious time of it.


Then I pushed the envelope. (Mommies always do.) I told Grayson he could play with the hose for a few minutes as long as he did not turn it on his A) sister B) mother C) dog at any time, in any fashion, at any cost whatsoever, so help him God. He nodded rigorously and promised to keep the water on all things green and non dexterous. I believed him. But only a little. I kept an ever vigilant eye on the little polka-dotted rosebud clapping around her brother like she was the last cheerleader on earth. And he was Terrel Owens.

Exhibit A: Squeals of delight and peels of laughter.














Exhibit B & C: Oh the little innocent lamb is so very very trusting of the wolf.
































And then an uproariously supportive Exhibit D:
Bring the noise. Bring the funk.














I should have seen the signs. (They are written all over his face.)













His body language even tells the entire scene about to unfold, play by play, if only his mother can put the Nikon down in time. ("See, my little lambchop, this gentle spray will not hurt you...Come closer now, good...good...")















***** Just a few seconds elapse and BAM!*********


The inevitable ancient sibling water torture is halted before the wolf can finish her off.














But clearly, I am still too late.



















The damage was done.

The dancing flower got completely soaked and the wolf incurred a hefty time out on the wet stairs without honey bear grahams for snack. Plus, I made him dry off his sister, help me with the laundry, and promise he wouldn't, under any circumstance or in any fashion, do that to her again, ever.

He promised.


I unplugged the hose.