It’s official. I can no longer, in good conscience, continue calling our youngest child “Angel Bear”. Henceforth, he shall be known as "BooBoo Bear".
On Friday evening I was mentally meandering about a possible post centered around the incredibly frustrating, eventful, creative, messy, befuddling day I’d had with HIM. Just a small taste of what I’d witnessed. About ½ hour before I was expecting Papa Bear to return from his business trip, I finally ran upstairs for a shower (this was after dinner). I’d been gone ten minutes, and was just about finished up, when Brother Bear knocked on the bathroom door.
“What?” I tried not to screech. I haven’t had an uninterrupted shower in almost ten years.
“HE just dumped a bottle of shampoo all over himself and the floor.”
How, exactly is one supposed to respond to that when one is dripping wet in the shower?
“Where did he do this?”
“In the study.”
“And in the entry.”
On the wood floor. Visions of Papa Bear arriving home after an exhausting day of travel just to slip on a slimy substance on the floor and break his tailbone. Perfect.
“Sigh. I’ll be right there.” So much for shaving.
It wasn’t the complete disaster I had initially envisioned, but good enough. Two days earlier he had spilled dish soap on just about the same spot after deciding that he would use it to blow bubbles using a pump dispenser. When I get around to shampooing the carpet to get up the mystery substance spilled on yet another occasion, I shouldn’t have to use any carpet shampoo. So, I took HIM upstairs for a bath, him giggling the entire time because the shampoo was making his butt cheeks squish together in a funny way. How he got it in the back of his shorts, I can’t begin to imagine. Why he got it there, I don’t even want to know.
Other highlights from the day include bowling with grapes in the dining room, then squishing them where they lay. Taking an arm-load of glass bottles to the back deck to make a musical instrument (I wouldn’t let him set it up in the family room). Eating a bowl of strawberry jello with his hands, spilling half of it on the floor, then insisting on giving me a pat on the butt with his sticky hands. Skewering little tomatoes from the garden on a kabob skewer and them flinging them across the room at his brothers.
This was just ONE day. One day of many, many days. It’s just a phase... It’s just a phase... It’s just a phase... When I find myself too frequently looking at this child and asking “What in the *bleep* were you thinking?!?”, I zip on over to KitMama’s Penseive and remind myself that HE is not the only mess-monster child on the planet.