Dixie's birthday, as you can surmise from the cake, had a peace sign theme. For the party favors, I ordered peace sign mugs to put the kids' goodies in. They looked like this:
You must certainly be shocked when I tell you that Charlie claimed a gween one as his own. Not the contents ("Yuk. Dey is stuff fo giwls. I do not need dat stuff.") but the mug.
For reasons unbeknownst to me, he declared it his Chum Bucket and promptly filled it with Lego bits. He walks around the house, mug in fist, asking people, "Do you want to see what is inside my Chum Bucket?"
He clearly does not know what a chum bucket really is. Thank you, SquarePants.
This morning, after a rather long night of him being 'frow-uppy' all over both of us and both of our beds, we are home sick and tired. That's the theory, at least. He is walking around playing and yammering on relentlessly while I try to keep my eyes open and work out the sharp pains in my neck and shoulder muscles that are a courtesy of the long and laundry-filled night.
Unrelenting in his request for me to find his Chum Bucket, devastated by it's lack of proximity to his Lego-clutching grubby fingers, he finally accepted an alternate vessel.
It looks like the largest of these and, due to it's shape and coloring, has been named Chum Bucket of Love.
He's as romantic as his father.