Earlier today, I was playing “Pretty, Pretty Princess” on the floor with Gracie (I was TOTALLY winning. I had two earrings, a necklace and a ring. She only had two necklaces) when William walked into the room, chewing.

“What is William eating?” I called.

“He’s eating something?” my wife answered from another room.

“Yeah,” I said. “He just walked in here chewing.”

“What does he have?”

“Don’t know,” I said, inspecting his empty mouth. “It’s gone now.”

No worries. It was just what we’ve come to call Floor d’Oeuvres.

While Grace was pretty good at finding Floor d’Oeuvres in her younger days, William is a master. Like a shark that can detect a single drop of blood within the vast ocean, this kid can hear a Cheerio hit the floor from clear across the house. He immediately drops what he’s doing and zooms towards the wayward treat as quickly as his short, stubby legs will carry him.

Here’s an example. William and his mother were at the beach earlier in the week. At one point, she noticed that he had a warm, oily, sand-covered corner of cheese.He heard CHEESE hit SAND. This kid’s got a career in international espionage ahead of him.

So what happened to it? “I don’t know what ended up happening to the cheese,” my wife said. So if the whole spying thing doesn’t work out, he’ll at least be able to win a few bar bets.

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It’s the proposition that follows dinner in our house. It basically means, “Do you want to clean up the post-dinner mess or kick-start the kids’ PM routine?” Don’t jump too quickly. There is no easy answer.

Answering “kitchen” could mean scrubbing a mountain of dishes and/or pots and pans, plus cutlery, the counter tops, the table and so on. With some luck, the dishwasher will actually be empty (a rarity), the trash can won’t be overflowing (hasn’t happened yet) and the evening’s “chef” would have tidied up while cooking (a bona-fide miracle).

Selecting “kids” is even riskier.

If they actually ate something, they’re probably satiated and happy enough to keep from attacking each other like cage fighters while you arrange pajamas, line up the lotions and diapers, begin baths, choose the evening’s books and answer the phone (because someone ALWAYS calls just as you’re getting started). Finally, you’ve got to referee the inevitable argument over who will be first in the tub.

Not that it’s all bad. While cleaning the kitchen you can listen to music or, even better, the sweet, happy voices of your little ones in the next room. On the other hand, having two fresh-smelling kids curled on your lap, their damp heads pressed into your chest as you read their favorite books is just about as close to heaven as you can get.

As for me, I’ll take “kids.”

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Earlier today, we were at the grocery store picking up diapers and milk. On the way home, Grace announced that she wants to play with “…that toy” when we got home. “Which toy is that?” I ask her. “That toy you put on your knee,” she answered.

My mind set to work on the problem. “Grace,” I said, “What is the toy that you put on your knee?” “You know that toy,” she said, laughing dismissively at what must have been a joke.

“Oh, no, I sure don’t,” I thought.

Once we got back home and I had put the groceries away, she repeated her request. I told her that I’d help her look, hoping that she’d lead me to some sort of clue. Soon we were searching the house for something that she couldn’t describe and I couldn’t imagine.  I felt like Robert Langdon from The Da Vinci Code (minus the priceless art and exotic locales). The pursuit ended with her in disappointed tears and me in annoyed confusion.

Hours later, with the whole business forgotten, she shouted at the top of her lungs, “Here it is!” She came marching towards me with her thin arms thrust forward and her tiny fists clenching … Band-Aids.

Band-Aids are “…that toy you put on your knee.” Now you know. Grace and I live on the same planet, but different worlds.

Related posts:

1. School Daze
2. Floor d’Oeuvres
3. Enter sandman