Last week, I did a completely thorough house cleaning: the kind where I scrub baseboards, vacuum sills and wash windows. The chores I detest and put off until the sun can barely peek through all the fingerprints and dirt on the window.
Apparently I need to clean more often, though.
The day after I cleaned, he came running up to me, almost in tears.
"Mommy! Mommy! They all gone. ALL OF THEM! All of them are GONE!"
"Who, Bjorn? What?! Who is all gone?"
"The Fi! All of the Fies are GONE!" This is said in typical upset Bjorn fashion, arms thrown around, head down and despondent, body collapsing onto the floor in mourning.
"Bjorn, what are you talking about?!"
"In my special place. My special Fi place."
"Ok, Bjorn. I don't know what you are talking about. Show me. Take me there."
He grabbed my hand and pulled me towards his table. The table he spends so much time at, playing with playdough or continuously running cars off the sides to CRASH! CRASH!CRASH!
Lifting up the blinds to the windowsill, he pointed.
"There, Mommy! There! All the Fies are gone. Their special Fi Place is GONE!"
Apparently, I had vacuumed up all his special Fly friends. Oops.