Because I only had mounds of laundry to fold, kids to bathe, dinner to make and dishes to wash, it seemed an opportune time for the US Census Bureau to call and chat.
Since I had nothing going on.
Now, I don't necessarily mind the US Census Bureau calling.
Except for this.
I already turned in my census.
Like a good little 3rd grader.
Marked all the boxes, filled in the blanks, checked my work twice and mailed it back.
And it's not my fault that if you have more than 2.1 children, there are not blanks and boxes for any ancillary information the US Census Bureau might want to know.
I think that was her name.
My personal US Census Bureau attendant.
We chatted for quite a while.
We needed to establish, once and for all, that yes, I do have eight children living in my home, and, no, this is not a blended family of his, mine and ours but that all eight are really and truly ours and that, yes, each child is a son or a daughter of Michael.
Millie was perfectly pleasant if not a little perplexed.
Since we'd already been relegated to the 'Freak Census Response Files', Michael decided it was an opportune time to try to tickle me and chase me around the house while Millie played 20 questions with me.
So in addition to verifying that there really are ten related people all living in this house, Millie also got to experience me shrieking and laughing and running away from Mike while trying to communicate with some sort of decorum.
We consider it a personal mission.
To keep the US Census Bureau entertained.
It's our patriotic duty.