It’s sandal season again.
And that’s not really a problem. Except that I’ve been wearing flip flops, and the ground has been a little wet, and the mechanics of flip flops involve the occasional heel to ground contact, and the wet and the ground and the mud and all got my foot a little dirty.
Which I don’t care about, but Margaret seemed to take exception to it.
And so she cleaned me. Repeatedly. Daintily. And ineffectually.
This interest in cleaning extends beyond just cleaning my feet, although that is a central part of her cleaning regimen. She also likes to wipe off her placemat after (and indeed during) her meals; she wants to wipe her hands and her face by herself. And she is very excited about washing her hands at the sink whenever she can get someone to lift her up.
And, of course, there’s the vacuuming.
I keep trying to train her to put her toys away, but she is resistant to that kind of cleaning, since it doesn’t involve dampness or machines that make noise. But I figure she’ll come around sometime.
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