Don’t pee in my bed! That’s your what???
My four year old, Oliver, insisted on sleeping in a swim diaper last night, and I wondered if it would hold. At 6:10 this morning, he moved into bed with us, snuggled a bit and then said, “Mommy, what is this?” He patted the bed, and I said, “Oliver are you joking? It’s the bed.”
“No, Mommy, this.” I should have paid more attention to the mischievous smile curling the corners of his mouth.
Yep, you see where I’m headed: two large circles of tee-tee had migrated from his sopping diaper into our sheets and mattress (naturally this also means I’ll be changing his bed today, in addition to mine; and a +2 for the to-do list).
“Oliver, it just stinks. Yuk.”
“I think it smells awesome, like burned up hotdogs with ketchup on them.”
All I could do was laugh, a sincere chortle tinged with a slight bit of resignation. Seven year old Jack joined us in bed, mayhem ensued, Oliver unearthed a plastic bag of golf tees and balls from under our bed, tore the bag into small pieces which he tossed over us like faux snow, and all our pillows and sheets ended up on the floor. After an hour of increasing lunacy, my husband, Tom, locked the boys out of the room at which point they started picking the lock with about 87 tees. We gave up, went downstairs and made a beeline to the coffee maker.
At this point, you might think, surely these parents will get a reprieve. Not so fast! On our counter I spied a Safety First rectal thermometer; you know, one of those made for babies. A vague sense of alarm entered my psyche as I asked someone to tell me why it was so casually in our kitchen.
Oliver: “Oh, that’s my blaster!!”
Tom: “He’s been playing with it for days.”
Me: “Uh, that’s been in his butt! Jack’s too!”
Tom: “Oh, right!”
Oliver: “hahahahahahahaha, I love my blaster, has it really been in my butt? Jack it’s been in my butt. It’s been in your butt too!!! hahahahaha.”
Happy Monday all.