There is a large round terra cotta planter that sits on our front porch. It once held a tomato plant. That never thrived. Then, when we moved it to our new home, we planted flowers in it. Except they never bloomed.
Over the past year, you girls have poked and dug, watered and emptied, covered yourselves in potting soil.
Today, you discovered a couple of whole peanuts beneath the soil.
I really have no idea, but I BS'ed that, "maybe a squirrel dug a hole to hide them there until winter." Because isn't that the dominant squirrel narrative perpetuated by children's literature and those squirrel LOLs that are forwarded to you by your Great Aunt Mildred?
And that would have been all well and good, until you started talking about the nuts.
The "pea-nits" you called them.
"Look, Mommy, I found peanits. I have A LOT of peanits. That's a BIG pea-nits. Oh no! The pea-nits are broken!"
And like good parents, your father and I giggled every time you pronounced the word "peanut" like a part of the male anatomy.
Because if children these days are good for nothing else, you can at least count on them for the occasional chuckle. Or. If you're lucky, a hearty guffaw.