Stuart and I were getting ready to go for a walk after dinner. "Listen, guys," I said. "I want you to be sure to clear the table, sweep the floor and do the dishes before you play." I looked sternly at the three children dressed in Stuart's button-down shirts and baseball caps. "Do you understand? You may not play spies until after your chores are done. And one more thing. No mustaches! Do you hear me? You may not draw mustaches on your faces!
"Why not, Mama? Is it dangerous?"
"No, Faith, it's not dangerous but this morning when you were spies somebody rubbed their mustache off on the wall in Charlie's room."
"Oh. How 'bout crayon? Can we use crayon to make mustaches?"
"Nope. Nooo mustaches." And out the door we went, stepping around Charlie who had fallen flat on his face while trying to walk in a pair of Stuart's shoes.
When we got home, the chores were done and all of the children had added sunglasses to their spy costumes and had calculators in hand. We overheard them conversing in the dark using heavy British accents. "We put two and two together and we have cleverly deducted that four has something to do with something."
They're something alright.