I have to hand it to the Columbian drug cartel. They can miraculously transport thousands of kilos of cocaine into the United States, maneuvering it past customs and tight airport security; whereas, I can’t even sneak a measly bag of broken toys out of my apartment without arousing the suspicion of a 7-year-old.
While brushing my teeth yesterday, I heard violent screams from outside the bathroom door, followed by a full force, “Mom! How could you?!”
Oh, God, what horrible mommy sin did I commit this time?
Like some overzealous DEA agent, Savannah had found hidden in the neither lands of my bedroom closet a bag of old toys and clothes marked for donation.
Before I could rinse she had the bag ripped and the tattered stuffed animals, baby puzzles and crappy birthday party favors dumped on my closet floor. The only thing missing from making the bust official was drug-sniffing dogs.
Next donation I’ll spare myself by swallowing those tacky party favors and regurgitating them once safely across the border and at the nearest Salvation Army