Paint is so PRETTY, Mama!

I went to the bathroom alone. Clearly, that was my first mistake.

Actually, I take that back.  My FIRST mistake was buying the blasted beautiful paint in the first place. 

I wanted paint so that I could make Valentines for the parents in the daycare. They've all gone above and beyond for me, and I know what it's like, as a parent, to wonder what the heck your child does all day. Sometimes, I like to show that we really do have fun here, no matter what the kids tell them (they're still stuck on how awful it is that I make them clean up after themselves).

Anywho, we did our super awesome Valentine craft for the mommies and daddies, and I locked the paint away in the cabinet. I made sure that it was at the back of the cabinet, and that none of the kids saw which cabinet I put it in. I trust them, but, you know. Okay, okay. I don't trust them.

After I was sure that everything was as secure as I could possibly get it, I made my escape. I get 2 bathroom breaks per day, on a good day. The kids were occupied with trains and blocks, so I tiptoed in to the bathroom, locked the door, and took a deep breath. Sometimes it's the little things.

42.3 seconds later, I opened the door to a "thwap! thwap!" sound. The sound that a toddler hand makes when it hits something wet. Something...thick...and wet...and...OH MY GOD.

I raced around the corner to see C and Zo sitting at the dining room table, grinning like goofballs, slapping away at a HUGE (roughly 18" in diameter) circle of paint. Three almost-empty bottles of (thank you baby Jesus) washable tempera paint sat beside them on the table.

I shrieked something unintelligible and cried, "STOP. DO.NOT.BREATHE." They both turned to look at me, with their hands above their heads.

I grabbed Zo by the wrists and threw my other arm under her legs (since her jeans were covered in paint) and carried her carefully to the bathroom. I stripped off her pants, without dropping anything on the floor (go me!) and then held her arms over the sink while I washed her off. She had paint up to her elbows.

As I came out of the bathroom, I watched in terrible slow motion as baby We grabbed the edge of the tablecloth and pulled it on to the floor. Remember the paint that was on said tablecloth? Yeah. Now it was all over my floor, walls, chairs, and dog. The long-haired St. Bernard. Cool.

Remarkably, the baby didn't get any on himself, so I removed him from the situation as far as possible, and looked up to see sweet C standing on the dining room chair, with his hands over his head. As he gave me a sheepish smile, he said, "you say-ed no moving, mommy. I didn't move!"

I got him cleaned up, wiped down the dining room chairs, and set the kids at the dining room table to color while I finished wiping the paint off every flat and furry surface in my home. 

Two days later, I remember the tablecloth and pants that I had sitting in the utility sink in my laundry room. I'm eternally thankful for the makers of Oxyclean and a washing machine with a "deep clean" cycle.  

An exercise in futility

***Disclaimer: I love my job. Really. It's the absolute perfect job for me, I'm eternally grateful that Mister B pushed me to try it, and I firmly believe I have the greatest group of kids in the whole world.***

Ahem.

I think that, instead of water boarding, our go-to torture method should be to lock someone in a room with approximately half a dozen toddlers, and insist that they are not allowed to leave until the TODDLERS have cleaned up the 782 toys that are scattered on the floor of said room.

You see, they'd never leave. Ever.

We cleanup (read: I cleanup) our toys before we transition to another area of the house, or to a major activity. This process usually involves more redirection than you can imagine. Something like this:

"Put the blocks in the bin, please.
No, not in the couch, in the bin.
Z, stop sucking your thumb, please.
Out of your mouth, baby W.
No, A, blocks don't go in your ear.
Okay.
Everybody ready?
Books!
Let's put the books on the shelf.
No, not in the trash, on the shelf.
Shelf.
SHELF.
Okay.
Yes, I see that block!
Can we put it back in the bin, please?
No, not on the table, in.the.BIN."

Lather, rinse, repeat. It's exhausting at times. Worth it, because I know that cleaning up after oneself is a very important life lesson.

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Life is about to get much more interesting around here. Jax starts baseball soon (he's moving up to coach pitch this year), Sam starts ballet on Saturday, and I'm starting a new business. I'll be a Pampered Chef consultant, come March.

It's a lot, but I thrive when busy. Good thing, too, because this life we've created for ourselves is nothing if not busy.

Thank the universe I found Mister B. He completes me, grounds me, and puts up with my insanity. He's a keeper, that one.