It's an official title in our house. The undie sorter. The description is obvious. Baby B loves chores. Put a cotton sock on her hand and give her a can of Pledge and you can count on her being busy for 30 minutes. The sorting thing though, that's for me. I don't want to have to pull each tag out of each tiny pair of undies to see whose initial is on it. I don't want to keep track of who has Dora and who has Ariel. Beignet can accomplish this feat in under 60 seconds.
Watching her recently, I saw her carefully pick up each pair of little girl undies. "Ladybug's. Mine. Ladybug's. Mine." Then I saw her pick up my undies w/ only a pointer and a thumb, as if she were holding a dead rat's tail. I assure you that there is nothing fancy about those undies dangling between thumb and finger. Nothing special at all. "Why are you doing that to my undies?" I asked. "Because they are gross. They don't look like my undies." "Well they're grown-up sized, but other than that...." "They don't have DORA!" There you have it. No Dora = disgusting undies. Who knew?
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