The Princess memorized an anonymous poem.
I know a funny little man, as quiet as a mouse, Who does the mischief that is done in everybody’s house! There’s no one ever sees his face, and yet we all agree that every plate we break was cracked by Mr. Nobody…
And so on.
Squishy adopted a Mr. Nobody when her third child was about two years old.
He was like a sibling to me. I think he still lives with my parents.
My own children are a carefree lot. If I point to the mud on the floor, or the Top Ramen all over the counter, or Laudie-da running gleefully down the street because someone left the door open, and I ask my children: “Who is responsible?” then they casually shrug and say, “Me” and calmly walk away.
My status instills no fear.
Because of their forthright confessions I thought Mr. Nobody felt unwanted, which was why he didn’t visit.
When The Princess and I discussed the poem she was memorizing I asked doubtfully if there was anything Mr. Nobody did at our house.
She grinned and lowered her voice, “Uh Mom? We really know who Mr. Nobody is.”
Who?
“It’s The Pixie.”
I know a funny little girl, as teeny as a mouse, Who does the mischief that is done in everybody’s house! There’s no one ever catches her, and yet we all agree, that every frown we had was cracked by Mrs. Nobody.