Saturday, October 9, 2010

Psycho, revisited, in my very own shower.

The baby stayed up till six.

 I should say, I stayed up till six. Six am, when I entered the bed room and told Mr. Lovinangels that it was now his turn to care for the little monster. I ignored her wails as I handed her over- (not the mama, not the mama, NOT THE MAMA) and attempted sleep. It took a little bit, she (and he) fell back asleep before I managed to.

 All things considered, today went fairly well. The baby arose from her four and a half hour sleep fully refreshed and ready to do some damage, and I managed to complete a few household chores without setting up a caffeine IV.

 Four cups isn't too bad, right?

 Until tonight, when it started to catch up to me. MissAngelLittleGirl for some reason seemed determined to make the most noise ever in the history of the world. MissAngelBaby spent most of the evening scaling the table and chattering angrily at me when I removed her. Eventually I determined by my foul mood that bed time was at hand, and dashed upstairs to start a bath for the mud and food covered children.

 And therein, lies tonight's story, which I will tell quickly before rushing into bed myself, hopefully for more than twelve minutes.

 Now, I have about forty five seconds to complete any given task before one of my dear children will do irreparable harm to the other. SO, I literally jumped the gate, ran up the stairs, switched the water on, and ran down to grab jammies out of the little ladies' dressers.

 I almost ran over a three year old, who was clapping with delight at the thought of a warm bubble bath, and stripping down to her undies in the middle of the hallway.

 She'd taken the gate down.
The full realization of that didn't dawn on me. I simply barked, "I'm washing the baby first, put your clothes back on." as I ran past her.

She told me that was acceptable. Exact words. That kid is too much.

I'm on a mission for clean towels, and heading back to the bathroom, I realize the gate is down. The baby is halfway up the stairs, sans spotter, and is teetering on the edge of a midpoint step,  squealing.  The kid was laughing her little butt off.

 Post panic attack, baby quickly washed, buffed, lotioned, dried and dressed, and Little Miss hopped into the tub.
I had to use the bathroom. Couldn't wait ONE MORE MINUTE.
Thank God it was in the same room, and she was was just singing her little heart out. I ducked behind the bathtub to the toilet and sat.

 She screamed, and I jumped across the room, shorts around my ankles, heart in my throat, to find my little girl and a good portion of the white walls covered in bright red blood.

She was grinning at me. My barely functional brain struggled to make sense of the happy, bloody child as I searched for a cut.

 No cut. No, she'd bootlegged in a red Crayola bath marker, and in less than eight seconds had done a masterful interpretation of Marion Crane's famed death scene. I KNOW I threw that darned thing out.

 I'm thinking Crayola should pay for therapy.

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