There's a story, more like an account actually, of something that happened a while back when the kids were young. I emailed it to a few friends at the time. I wish I could find that original version of it. I related it back when it was fresh. I'll never retell it as well as I told it originally but because you're reading this, I'll try my best.

This weekend David and I did our usual Sunday morning thing. I worked out then took a bath. He watched. We talked. I told him about this blog. I haven't let him read it yet. I told him that it was hard for me to tell him about the blog because for some reason, I don't mind if friends or perfect strangers read it but it embarrases me to think that he might see it. I've been that way as long as I can remember. I suppose it is because he is the person in the world whom I'd most like to impress. What if he thinks it is silly? He'll chuckle when he reads it regardless.

Anyway, I washed, he watched and we talked. I told him some stories. He'd forgotten about this one. It is as clear to me now as it was the day it happened.

Ours has always been the house where the kids play. There are always those parents, the ones who open their basement to the neighborhood, which in our case is an 1800 square foot, essentially child proof, unfinished concrete slab. I've gone downstairs to find tempra paint handprints covering portions of walls and sheets nailed to the rafters to craft homemade playroom boundaries. Child proof, not child safe.

At one point, the neighborhood children occupying our basement were a group of about 7 or so, stairstepped in age...a 10 year old, a nine...mine, an eight, two sevens...male and female fraternal twins..., a six and a five. There may have been a four. I don't remember. That portion of my life is somewhat a blur. The 10 year old and 8 year old belonged to the neighbors behind us, a family of British expatriates.

Mothers don't often take time for themselves because it makes us feel guilty. The day of this story, I'd wandered over to the Brits' house. We talked. It was glorious. I don't even remember what we talked about. It sounds so cliche but it is true when I say that in those days, I didn't often have adult conversations. I talked mosly to my kids.

I think I was probably gone for about 10 minutes. Kids can get in a lot of trouble in 10 minutes, especially when they're in a large group. I know this now. I probably knew it then but at the time, the rewards of a few moments peace outweighed the danger of unsupervised playtime.

Tootsie was our dog at the time, a beautiful and kindly dachshund mix. Her coat was shiny and smooth. She was gentle with children.

After chatting with my neighbor I returned home to find that my beautiful, kindly, glossy-black dachsund mix had been spray painted flat white latex.

The funny thing is, David remembered none of it when I mentioned it last Sunday. Typically he remembers virtually everything. In fact, he repeatedly relates a story about how he, at around age four, presented a bathroom scale to a plump female friend who'd stopped by to visit his mother. He also obviously remembers in detail each and every misstep I've made since approximately 3 months into our twenty year marriage. Oh, and in case you wondered, yes, she stepped on the scale.

David almost had me convinced I'd dreamt the white flat latex story. When I asked Will, my 13 year old about it, his eyes widened and he told me that it was the twins' idea :)

It took me over a week to write this. I couldn't decide how to finish it. Tonight, it finished itself.

I'm sure now that I owe Will an apology. You see, at the time, I thought it was his idea to spray paint the dog. But tonight Hope (my daugher) and Jennifer (the female member of the set of fraternal twins) crept into the house. They tried to sneak downstairs with a toy baby carrier covered by a cloth, under which were 7 marker painted fresh eggs from my downstairs fridge. Guilty!