I am a genius.
Well, let me preface this by saying that after some of my loyal fans read this, they might not want to come over to my house again. At least, not without a HazMat suit. Just trying to mentally prepare some of you for what my stroke of absolute ingenuity entails.....
Tonight I was trying to make dinner and the kids were doing what kids do best at 4:30 on a rainy afternoon: Being totally obnoxious. Elsa was pillaging through the tupperware cabinet, pulling out containers and lids in shapes, sizes and colors I didn't even know we had. And Rollie was demonstrating his newfound ability to open the refrigerator. He kept telling me he wanted juice, and then he'd open the fridge and attempt to climb up the shelves to reach the motherload of Capri Suns stashed on the 2nd shelf from the top. So between tripping over Gladware and yelling at Rollie to stop hoisting himself up by the deli meat drawer, I was ready to shove both of them inside the oven and preheat it (just a little, of course...up to 250, max).
So then Rollie gives up scoring some juice and starts pulling magnets off the door and kicking them beneath the fridge.
"Rollie!" I holler. "Knock it off!"
"Look, Momma," Rollie says, as if sending magnets into the nether regions of the Refrigerator Underworld is a really cool trick. He kicks another one.
"Stop, Rollie, you're never going to get those magnets out of there."
"I know," he says. "I'll go get Mr. Yardstick!"
Mr. Yardstick is a long wooden ruler we keep stashed in the linen closet, not for measuring things, but for retrieving long lost toys, books, and other objects when they somehow end up beneath appliances and furniture, just out of reach of even Jeff's wingspan. Rollie dashes out of the kitchen and returns with dependable Mr. Yardstick (who also happens to have a couple of shoelaces tied around him--when he isn't fighting crime, he doubles as Rollie's fishing pole).
Anyway, I instruct Rollie to get on the floor and start corralling the magnets he sent skittering under the fridge. And I go back to preparing dinner. Until Rollie says, "What's that, Momma?"
I turn and see that Mr. Yardstick has pulled a large clump of fur from beneath the fridge. Rather large. Like, it could be mistaken for a Guinea pig. A fat Guinea pig.
"Um...that is a dust bunny," I say.
"A bunny?" Rollie squats down and peers at the furry thing with great interest. Even Elsa has stopped tearing through the cabinet and has crawled over to investigate. Meaning she reaches for the gob of hair, and the next stop is her mouth.
"No, Elsa," I say.
"Is it a bunny rabbit?" Rollie asks.
"Not exactly," I say, already envisioning him wanting to keep it as a pet, in his room, perhaps. Where he can feed it carrots and name it George. And then, it hit me.
"Rollie, why don't you slide Mr. Yardstick under there again and see if this bunny has a friend?"
Rollie's face lights up. "Okay, that's a good idea," he exclaims, and diligently does as I suggested.