I was upstairs putting away laundry (or wandering aimlessly looking for left-over Christmas chocolate, either one) and picked up a blanket hanging over the side of my daughter's dresser. I know it's my daughter's because it has her name on it. In red nail polish. Scrawled across the side in 7 year old penmanship. She is 17 now so clearly it's not a new signature, and I have seen it before, but it reminded me of the good old days when markers, crayons, anything with ink, were dangerous. Permanent markers never stepped foot into this house. The kids thought everything was their canvas. I got to thinking (and finally chuckling after years) about my oldest son, now 19, who used to write his own name on the wall and then say it wasn't him. Um, yes love, it was you. You signed it. He also used a rock once to scrawl his name into the side of my minivan. Which he also denied. Then stupid me explains to him that clearly I know he did it because he wrote his own name. "This is your name right?" "Yes." "So I know you did it. Why would someone else write your name? They have their own names, even if I don't always remember them." Well that was not a good idea to plant in his head, because from that moment on he continued to write on walls, but learned to spell his sister's name and signed all his artwork with that. It worked a few times too; poor girl got time out for scribbling on the wall while he smirked in victory.
Damn intelligent kids.