"Well," began Wyatt, "there was paint."
He holds both of his hands in the air when he says this.
"There was all this paint all over my hands."
Still holding hands in the air . . .
"So I went to the bathroom to wash the paint off my hands."
I notice some red paint on his pants and think, "clever placement of evidence to support his story."
"When I got back to the classroom, after almost being locked in there FOREVER by Christopher, who stood in front of the door and wouldn't get out of the way, it was time to go! So there was all this commotion (his words, I swear) and I got all my stuff ready to go and I forgot my homework!"
It's times like these when being a mom is really, really challenging. Because although I know that I am supposed to be all, "well, son, that was very irresponsible blah, blah, blah . . . " I can't help but snicker, just a little, at his story.
"I'm sure you won't forget it tomorrow" I say.
And then I turn around and smirk at my husband.