After our dinner, Boston is too dirty to bother wiping off. I strip his clothes and plop him in the clean kitchen sink. He plays with the sprayer and giggles in delight. I give him a plastic bowl and wooden spoon for play. August, of course, wants to join him. I empty the basin next to Boston and lift August into place. After twenty minutes of laughing and splashing and general mess, the boys are clean and ready for pajamas.
Later that evening as I wash the dinner dishes, I wonder if sinks are made to support the weight of my children.
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