A letter to his mother

Dear Mom,

I noticed that last week you spent some time painting some doors--they are still in the garage. They're kind of in the way and I can't get my 4-wheeler out easily. Maybe they are still there because they need another coat of paint. So... while you and Madeleine were decorating the cookies...

I got to work. I remembered the exact tool you used to open the cans of paint, and I used it. But that can was empty, so I found another one. Luckily it was full, so I poured half of it into the pan, like you did.

But I figured it would be easier to just pour the paint on the doors themselves.

I may have poured too much...

I was about to get to work spreading it out when Dad came home from work. I thought, "If I stand perfectly still maybe he'll walk right on through the garage and won't notice I'm here." It didn't work. He saw me. And then he saw the doors. He wasn't very happy, so I asked, "Are you going to tell on me?" He must have been really mad because he didn't understand me, so I asked again, and then finally I said, "Are. You. Going. To. Tell. On. Me?" He said yes.

So here's the deal. I'm going to blame this whole mess on you, because clearly I was only trying to help. And really, it's only the garage, it's not like it's the carpet.

And next time you use paint, you should seal the cans with wax or something as a symbol that you don't need any more help.

Love,

Isaac