Friday, May 15, 2009

The Vandals I Live With

I am living with pint-sized vandals. They are destructive, they are ruthless, they are headstrong, they are 2.

Yesterday alone they scribbled marker all over my cabinets, dumped a box of cheerioes on the dining room carpet and then danced the cha-cha on them, pulled all of Ella's clothes out of her dresser, threw blocks down the stairs, and dumped almost half of their bathwater onto the floor. That one ticked me off the most because my socks got wet. There is nothing worse than wet socks.

They work as a team. They seem to feed off one another's mischievious natures. I swear to you that Daniel says to Ella, "Hey! I know what lets do! I'll make one of those really messy poops where mom has to work for a while to get all the poop particles off my butt, and while she is changing my diaper, you climb onto the mantel, pull the woodburning stove door open, and dump ashes all over the floor. Make sure to put some in your hair too. And your pockets! We should save some for later."

We spent the early-afternoon yesterday at the Strong Museum of Play with our speech therapist, Jessica. I have heard tales of children who have been separated from their parents at the museum and have survived for weeks on their own by glomming onto a gaggle of school children in order to eat their food. They then curl up to sleep in Big Bird's nest at night. Not a bad life, really.

The place is a maze. And I believe the schoolchildren who are there on field trips are imported from The School of the Hyper and Overactive Giant, which is located, I think, in Pittsford, not too far from the Harley School. Jessica, God love her, called after those gargantuan elementary schoolers (Watch out for the little ones! Tell your friends!) when they nearly trampled my enthusiastic two year-olds (who were dying to get away from us and join them.) I don't think they did. Tell their friends, I mean.

Daniel, Ben, and Ella fell asleep in the car on the way home, and all three supposed that was going to be their nap for the day. But I am evil and forced them to go to bed against their wishes, for I had an weighty article to write entitled "Gifts Giving Ideas for the Manly Man!" I am very busy and important, you know.

After their bath, the one that resulted in a minor Noah's Arc like flood, Ella wouldn't stop screaming because she had horrific diaper rash which the bath water apparently did not help to alleviate. Perhaps that's why she was dumping it out.

I wrapped her up in her towel, put cream on her hiney (I spend a good portion of the day dealing with their hineys) and read her the classic tale, Where is Baby's Bellybutton? This cheered her up significantly. There is nothing Ella loves more than showing people her own belly button. I am hoping her belly button exhibitions come to an end before she is school-aged.

I combed her hair, held her close, and put her in her crib, taking in one last breath of clean, soft baby skin. She may be a pint-sized delinquent, but she and her co-conspirator in crime, they are thankfully all mine.

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