Madeline likes to clean the house. Her definition is just different than mine.

I'm giving up my baby for the weekend. Which means I'm torn between guilt at going longer than 24 hours of seeing her, and excitement at getting to sleep and clean and other stuff that Madeline doesn't like to do. Or maybe that she like to help with too much. Like the dishwasher.She likes to pull each dish out after I've rinsed it off to make sure I didn't miss any spots. And then she puts them on the floor to keep track of which ones she's checked. So helpful. But rather detrimental to the whole filling the dishwasher idea. She also likes to help with laundry. Which translates to me trying to fold the clothes faster than she can drop them on the floor. She also likes to help me write blogs. Unfortunately, I have an exactingly high standard for my material, which must meet a certain level of wit and genius that Madeline has yet to achieve. Mostly because her writing generally resembles this: bgwlieg uweg ert000--ergre gkllkkkkkkk dkk. I'd tell you what that means but then I'd have to kill you.

As a side note to all stupid people at grocery stores (and this will sound like complaining to the rest of you, so skip it): Please, please have the courtesy to wait for me to remove my bags and my reciept from the self-serve checkout before you reach across my cart, and incidentally, my baby, to scan your Dove chocolate bar. It's not good manners, and no one's in that big of a hurry, or they wouldn't stop to buy a chocolate bar and nothing else. Next time you do that to me, I'm going to punch you and then take your chocolate bar and split it with my baby. Thank you.