Through many artistic creations, Brayden accomplished the ultimate!
I am making stew. The smell of the simmering "comfort in a pot" wafts throughout the house. It used to give me that peaceful, easy feeling.....no longer.
My husband is watching the bloopers from American Idol on TV and laughing hysterically. "You have to see this," he shouts from the living room. I spoon a heaping serving of steaming hot stew into my bowl and set it on the counter to cool. Brayden is sitting sweetly at the refrigerator creating words with his Word Wammer. I step around the wall to the living room and watch one short clip of self inflicted nationally aired humiliation. Camden gets up to go make himself a bowl of stew. Very calmly he says, "Mom, where are the paper towels?" "They're on the roll, I say." "Yes, but I need more." "More?" I question. "Why?" "Ummm," he stalls. I begin to head back into the kitchen. "No Mom," he says trying to stop me from entering the kitchen. "Just tell me where the paper towels are and then go sit with dad." I eye him suspiciously and walk past him into the kitchen.
I see Brayden's tiny feet below the open refrigerator door. "You need to close that door, Brayden and get out of the refrigerator." "Ok," he says. As I look closer I see that near his feet are two shiny wet yellow egg yolks broken and oozing between his toes. "Oh, Brayden," I sigh. I walk around the island and see what can only be called the pièce de résistance. He has taken an 18 pack of raw eggs and pelted the kitchen cabinets, the underside of the island, the inside of the refrigerator, inside the drawers, the pantry door, the wall, and every other surface that he could reach with raw eggs. The eggs that happened to land with a whole yolk, he joyfully stomped on it so that yellow protein splattered into every nook and cranny of my kitchen.
"Oh my Gosh!!!" I yelled! My son tries to diffuse the situation. I say, "Please just go put him in the bath while I clean this up." My husband comes to investigate. "I'll get him cleaned up," he says. I spend the next hour bleaching my kitchen from top to bottom. Brayden runs into the kitchen with his pj's on and his hair smelling of baby shampoo. He's lucky he's so cute! "I'm sowwy," he says with my husband standing behind him with his hands on his hips. "I know buddy."
I strip off my yellow rubber gloves and place them into the sink. I grab my cold gelatinous bowl of stew and sit down wearily at the table to eat. I pause as I hear tiny footsteps upstairs. I scroll through the reasons that he may be upstairs. Bed, I conclude. Daddy is making him go to bed early. Phew. But then I hear it. My husband's chuckle from the living room. "Brad," I call...."is Brayden upstairs by himself?" "Ummm," he ponders. "I'll get him," he says.
The tiny footsteps get louder and then all is suspiciously silent. I hear large footsteps coming down the stairs. Brad stands in the kitchen door holding Brayden under the arm pits. He's dripping with white goop. "What did he do?" I ask slowly. "He wanted conditioner in his hair," Brad said as he dripped white goo from his toes. "Oh God," I sigh. "It's allllll over the bathroom," Brad says. I sigh again. "No, Daddy," Brayden corrects him. "I cleaned it up." "Oh yes," he says "and he used the toilet brush to clean it up."
Oh God, I sigh. "I'll get him cleaned up," my husband sighs and heads to the tub. I grab my gloves, bucket, bleach and head upstairs.
Yes, pièce de résistance is what I would call that.
I didn't have the strong mental health to be able to laugh and take a pic, so here's the one he made the following day.
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