I keep finding stray white feathers floating around the house. I vowed to get to the bottom of this.
This morning I discovered the culprit: my three-year-old son, who has been pulling the down out of his favorite chair cushion, little by little.
My secondhand, top-quality swivel chairs.
The ones I had to promise to use for years to justify the investment.
You know those irrational mommy moments when cartoon steam shoots out of your ears?
Straining to keep my voice even, I articulated my question: Andrew. Where. Did. Those. Feathers. Come. From.
He looks up with a bright smile, at the same time his left hand is picking another quill out of the fabric.
"These? Oh, these come from birds. I'm not sure which species."
Sometimes you just have to laugh.
And reach for the Peterson's field guide.