This new blog segment will be devoted to those items which you allow your children to bring into the house reasoning that oh, they're harmless enough. And then you find out the truth.
We begin with a seasonal item: the humble acorn.
No, not the ACORN we heard so much hollering about during the campaign season, merely the ones that fall from oaks and their relatives this time of year. And are collected by youngsters around the nation, especially certain five year old princesses who shall go nameless here.
And are brought into the house and kept in an old coffee can until such time comes as Daddy can dig a hole or two in the yard and plant them.
Except for one.
Which will roll into a quiet nook or corner of your home, there to rest until the cats find it at two in the morning, at which point a hockey game breaks out. Old time hockey. Lily in particular was doing a credible impersonation of Joe Kocur at Herman's expense, and that's what dragged yours truly out of bed to locate the acorn at the root of all this. Good luck finding a dark-brown object less than a centimeter in diameter at two in the morning. I had no shot at success, and so went back to bed after separating the combatants.
CRUUUNCH. NOM NOM NOM NOM NOM.
Looks like Herman found the acorn, and is eating it.
And is sending it back up. Joy. Oh sweet sweet joy, to be cleaning acorn-studded cat-barf at 2:15 in the morning.
(with apologies, sound-effect-wise, to the late Don Martin of Mad Magazine)