Horrors under the Sink
One morning as my son was getting ready for school, he came flying down the stairs and into the kitchen, visibly upset.
“Mom! Mom! How could you?!”
“What, darling?” I replied, disturbed by his distress.
“My own family has instruments of genocide in the house!”
“Instruments of genocide? What are you talking about?”
“This!” he replied and pulled out a bottle. “Look! It says right here: Polish remover.”
What a difference a little syllable break makes.
I suppose I should have shared this yesterday in honor of Pulaski Day.
And, yes, for the record, my son was joking.