Now, as anyone who knows me can tell you, I am a slightly neurotic, mildly OCD (okay, CRAZY) clean freak. My disease becomes especially symptomatic when I have guests coming. I like to present a clean house. One with dusted baseboards. And wiped-down ceiling fans. And organized closets. And tile grout scrubbed with a toothbrush - you know, what any normal, sane person would do for fun on a weekday. Chase was all excited to help me clean - which I figured would translate into him either watching me clean or spraying an entire bottle of 409 into the toilet. Being the nice mother that I am, I let him help.
With some surprisingly decent help on his part, Chase and I got the kids' bathroom done (which will be the guest bathroom this weekend). I mentioned in passing that maybe the kids should use my bathroom from now on as theirs was now clean (and I did not want to have to clean it again tomorrow). Chase took my warning VERY seriously and intended for others to do the same.
I came down the hall a few minutes later to find the bathroom blocked off with yellow police tape, warning all trespassers that it was for "imarginsy" use only.
Seeing his eagerness to safeguard his hard work, I now feel confident that I did indeed get the right baby at the hospital seven-and-a-half years ago. He is so much like me.
Hannah, though, made sure to promptly sneak in and use the facilities, despite the obvious warning.
Which provides conclusive proof to me that she truly IS Josh's daughter. (And not the mailman's like we thought.)