Jonah was insistent. But Jonah’s always insistent.
“He made a big mess Dad. Come and see.”
Much tugging of arms and clothes.
“He made a big mess Mom! Come and see!”
“Jonah, you’re supposed to be brushing your teeth.”
“But Mom, I have to Show you!”
In the interest of getting things back on track, I allowed myself to be led down the stairs, into the dining room.
Now let me be clear. Gabriel’s two. Every meal involves a mess. Almost every diaper involves a mess. Giving G free time alone in the playroom usually involves a mess that also involves messes in the kitchen, front room, entry way and basement. Entire shelves of books get cleared. Drawers of kitchen utensils. Stray nails (once a way can be found to reach them) get pounded into walls (one of G’s new favorite past times is unloading wooden puzzles of their pieces and trying to hang them on the wall—which involves, you guessed it, pounding, and the removal of whatever picture was previously hanging in that spot, often to the disadvantage of said picture). Diapers get dumped from their bins. Blocks from their boxes. Charcoal disks used to light incense are converted to a fine black powder by G-powered steam rollers.
So how bad could it be? Not so bad, really. But we’re down a complete box of Honey-Nut, Gluten Free Chex. And for once, Jonah wasn’t being particularly dramatic. He just ran into that problem of finding and speaking the words he needed when he needed them.
I am certain a good share of those addictively tasty morsels (so much for giving up wheat if all I’m going to do is chow down on sugar laden rice cereal) were “cleaned” up by dear Sophie (note dark dog shadow behind the glass door).
So started the day. Add to that an explosively dirty diaper (I haven’t gotten poop on my jeans in quite some time), and it’s hard to escape the feeling that some days are just assigned the lot of fighting fires.
[Postscript: I just found myself shouting one of those slow motion “NOOOOOOOO!”s as I heard G dumping the puzzles we just finished reassembling and stacking in their rack. Who’s got the drama? Mama’s got the drama.]