I know, I know, it's hard to believe we would ever have a crazy day around here. But we did.
I have been car-shopping for the last couple of days. I have been using the oh-so-wonderful Internet rather than load up children and cart them around from dealership to dealership, trying not to teach my children inappropriate things to say as I deal with the salesman who, upon hearing I wanted a van, tried to sell me a Cadillac. (Yeah, that happened Tuesday.)
So I've been a bit pre-occupied.
And a pre-occupied Mother makes for screaming, high-flying circus children who think they can get away with anything they want.
It's been bad.
Yesterday morning I had had enough. We had some good quality time together, and they were riled up. Leftover Halloween candy might have helped, but they were actually sugar-free. I decided to break up the day by giving a bath before lunch, and letting them try out the new bathtub crayons they had recently received.
I let Drew have free run of the living room, as he loves times where he gets all the toys to himself and isn't tackled by two thirty-or-so pound brothers who try to show their love by tackling and dog-piling him.
I put three crazy, loud, screeching, tickling, jumping children. In a bathtub. Together.
Seriously, what was I thinking?
It started out great. They were thrilled with their ability to draw on the walls of the tub, and I showed off my never-before-appreciated ability to draw a cartoon cow in every color they asked.
Then, the splashing started. Grant has this face that he gives, this face of a child who knows that what he is doing is wrong, but does it anyway. Because he thinks it is fun. So when he was warned that splashing the water out of the tub would result in a consequence, he looked me right in the eye, grinned, and very deliberately splashed again.
Yeah, 'cuz that's gonna fly.
He was immediately pulled from the tub, wrapped in a towel, and sent to time-out. I have several time-out spots, and from past experience I have learned not to send a naked child to a carpeted spot. At least I learned after cleaning up pee
I left him there to serve his time and returned to find Drew had crawled into the bathroom and was sucking on a potty seat. Fan-freakin-tastic. Well call that his immunity-boost for the day.
I pulled the excersaucer out of my bedroom and put Drew into it, hoping and praying he would be happy, and went out to excuse Grant. I found him standing, facing the file cabinet. Oh, noooo... Sure enough, thee was a lovely trail of pee running down the side of my filing cabinet and pooling on the floor in front of it, and of course, underneath. I will admit, my reaction was probably not something you will find in "Perfect Parenting" Magazine. Not that there is such a thing.
"Grant, why did you pee on the file cabinet? I swear, you are like a puppy sometimes!"
Then, a solemn, quiet, little voice came: "I's not a puppy, I's a Gwant."
(Insert heart melting here.) "Ok, you're right, you are a Grant. But why did you pee on the file cabinet?"
"A'cuz pee-pee not go on the floor. You say, 'No go pee-pee-on the floor' so I not go pee-pee on the floor."
Honestly, I can't argue with that logic. But a part of me would have loved to be inside his brain, as he sat there needing to pee, and thinking, "Mommy doesn't want me to pee on the floor. What do I do? Oh, here we go! I'll pee on this thing!"
He's a problem-solver, that one.