I have always had hair gel, moisturizer, shampoo, toothpaste and various hygiene products in my house, just as I'm sure they are in households around the world. The difference is, households around the world don't have Kid 5. There are not enough child locks to contain the products that Kid 5 has gotten into. A straight jacket would be a better bet.
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Let's see...there was the time that Kid 5 came downstairs as I was cooking dinner. She sauntered in asking what what we were having for dinner as if she didn't have hair that was plastered to her head. "What is on your hair? I asked. She shrugged as she checked out the contents on the cutting board. I touched her hair cautiously and leaned down to smell it. It smelled familiar but I couldn't quite place it. It wasn't until the following morning when I applied my face moisturizer that I realized what she had used to generously saturate her hair. Then there was the Vaseline.
My hubby is quite old-fashioned and likes Vaseline as opposed to Chapstick when he has chapped lips. I personally like Carmex, in part because it is less of a mess when Kid 5 gets her grubby little hands on it. We came home from dinner one night when Kid 2 was watching her. He had thought she fell asleep in our room because she was so quite. Oh, how wrong he was. She had found the tub of Vaseline and smeared it on the entire foot board of the our bed. Of course, it was all over her too.
Aspercreme is another Kid 5 favorite, where, when found, caused quite a bit of fun. I had just bought a tube because although I wanted the pain relief, I dislike the smell of Ben Gay. I was downstairs in the kitchen when Hubby called me upstairs, motioning me to be quiet. As we peeked through the curtains that separate our bedroom from our bathroom, we watched Kid 5 in a t-shirt, sans pants or underwear, sliding around on the tile floor. She was dancing to music only she could hear, as she slid this way on feet slick with Aspercreme that she had spread in about a four by four foot area. She placed her hands on the floor so she could slide around on all fours when she saw us watching her. She simply looked up and grinned.
Because Hubby is old-fashioned, he loves the smell of Ben Gay, as it reminds him of his college football days. He uses it to rub down his knees before going to the gym in the morning. Unfortunately, he doesn't always remember to put it up out of reach when he's done. It was evident that he forgotten as I came down stairs one morning to the stench of Ben Gay so strong I swear it burned the inside of my nose. I could see little bitty footprints across the wood floor that led me to believe that Kid 5 had done it again. I followed the trail backwards to find Hubby's office reeking of the stuff. On the floor was a a huge smear of Ben Gay; it was even under the office chair mat. Although I washed Kid 5, mopped the floor, and washed the mat, our house smelled like a training room for days. Hubby never left it out after that.
The lasted adventure was the sunscreen. "Sprays on clear! No residue! SPF 30 UVA/UVB protection!" All over the living room floor. Suncreen is expensive. She basically sprayed about $8.98 on the floor to protect it from sun it will never see. And talk about clean up! I tried mopping and the sunscreen turned into a white sticky goop. I ended up using dish soap and water and tossed the empty bottle of sunscreen in the garbage. I was glad to take her to preschool that day.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Friday, May 4, 2012
Polish On, Polish Off.....
It was a Thursday night and everyone was doing his or her own thing. Kid 4 was watching Star Wars Clone Wars in his room, getting ready for sleep. I was in the downstairs office catching up on my DVR'd TV shows. Daddy was in bed, watching football, of course.
I heard the quick thumping of little feet upstairs, then the master bedroom door open and Daddy yelling, "What do you have? What do you have?" He had seen Kid 5 walk into our bathroom, then walk out holding what looked like a bundled up t-shirt tucked underneath her arm that was furthest away from him, apparently hoping he would not notice she was sneaking something out. When he asked her what she had in her hand, she bolted down the hall to her room. I ran upstairs to find out what the shouting was about.
We simultaneously made it to her doorway as she began to cry. As I stood there with my mouth hanging open, Daddy yanked a bottle of nail polish remover off of the floor where Kid 5 had dropped it wrapped in the t-shirt. We both saw the dark purple nail polish on the stairs of her bunk bed, smeared on the rail, and on her feet. As Kid 5 cried, I tried to decide on where to start cleaning up, and decided the feet come first.
Daddy hauled her back to our bathroom where I scolded her while wiping her feet with nail polish remover. After getting all of the nail polish off that I could, I washed her feet, still scolding her and sent her back to her room where Daddy tried to clean what he could on the bed.
I thought all was resolved until a while later when I went to the kitchen for a snack. I heard Kid 5 crying hysterically, and wondered what calamity had befallen her this time. I called to her, and was met with silence. As I listened and called to her again, I heard her whimper, but in closer proximity than from upstairs. As I walked around the downstairs, trying to pinpoint her muffled sniffles, I realized she was underneath the dining room table and using the chairs to stay out of sight.
I called her gently, trying to coax her out, because I was not inclined to climb under the table to fetch her. When she realized I knew where she was, she began to wail as if she lost a limb. As I continued to coax her out, she moved around out of my reach. I finally got a hold of one of her newly clean feet, and pulled her out. She stood there with her hands behind her back and hysterical tears pouring down her face.
"Let me see your hands," I told her and I tried to pull her hands from behind her back. The volume of her wails went up as she resisted. I pulled her hands from behind her back to discover that both hands were covered in the dark purple nail polish. When I had been cleaning her feet, in my frustration and focus on scolding her, I did not notice she had hidden her hands from me by keeping them behind her back. With a huge sigh and a feeling of resignation, I led Kid 5 back upstairs to the nail polish remover.
I heard the quick thumping of little feet upstairs, then the master bedroom door open and Daddy yelling, "What do you have? What do you have?" He had seen Kid 5 walk into our bathroom, then walk out holding what looked like a bundled up t-shirt tucked underneath her arm that was furthest away from him, apparently hoping he would not notice she was sneaking something out. When he asked her what she had in her hand, she bolted down the hall to her room. I ran upstairs to find out what the shouting was about.
We simultaneously made it to her doorway as she began to cry. As I stood there with my mouth hanging open, Daddy yanked a bottle of nail polish remover off of the floor where Kid 5 had dropped it wrapped in the t-shirt. We both saw the dark purple nail polish on the stairs of her bunk bed, smeared on the rail, and on her feet. As Kid 5 cried, I tried to decide on where to start cleaning up, and decided the feet come first.
Daddy hauled her back to our bathroom where I scolded her while wiping her feet with nail polish remover. After getting all of the nail polish off that I could, I washed her feet, still scolding her and sent her back to her room where Daddy tried to clean what he could on the bed.
I thought all was resolved until a while later when I went to the kitchen for a snack. I heard Kid 5 crying hysterically, and wondered what calamity had befallen her this time. I called to her, and was met with silence. As I listened and called to her again, I heard her whimper, but in closer proximity than from upstairs. As I walked around the downstairs, trying to pinpoint her muffled sniffles, I realized she was underneath the dining room table and using the chairs to stay out of sight.
I called her gently, trying to coax her out, because I was not inclined to climb under the table to fetch her. When she realized I knew where she was, she began to wail as if she lost a limb. As I continued to coax her out, she moved around out of my reach. I finally got a hold of one of her newly clean feet, and pulled her out. She stood there with her hands behind her back and hysterical tears pouring down her face.
"Let me see your hands," I told her and I tried to pull her hands from behind her back. The volume of her wails went up as she resisted. I pulled her hands from behind her back to discover that both hands were covered in the dark purple nail polish. When I had been cleaning her feet, in my frustration and focus on scolding her, I did not notice she had hidden her hands from me by keeping them behind her back. With a huge sigh and a feeling of resignation, I led Kid 5 back upstairs to the nail polish remover.
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