The table runner has gone missing, and so, mysteriously enough, has Natalie.
I hear her trotting about upstairs, clomping this way and that at a frantic pace. (The child might love all things delicate, but "delicate" does not describe her footfall. Think Clydesdales wearing Irish jig shoes on hardwood floors.)
"What're you doing, Natalie?" I hate to disturb her when she is engrossed in play, but something was afoot. So to speak.
"I can't tell you!" she calls back, a dead giveaway that I sure as heck better go find out.
I kick off my shoes and walk upstairs with quiet, sock-clad feet. There, I find this:
"What've you got going on here?" I shush the side of me that groaned, "Oh, come on. The table runner? I just got it back from the dry cleaner."