Zane has a little table and chairs set from Ikea. It is probably the most ignorant purchase I have ever made. You see, it has made my toddler able to access the only surfaces in the house that were once off limits no matter how much he cried or tried to scale the cabinets. It is my least favorite purchase.
One day this week he had many interesting experiments, much thanks to the handy blue Ikea chair. While on the computer at the bottom of the stairs, Zane happily shouted down from the top "hair gel". I know when he takes time out of his play to tell me something, it often means I need to run fast. Usually he just tells me flat out mommy I make a mess and brings me to the scene of the crime. I am curious of what his interpretation of hair gel is as I notice a shiny patch of hair on top of his head. I find the blue chair allowed his access to my tall bedroom dresser. I also found an opened bottle of consecrated oil, typically used for giving blessings to the ill. As I am replacing the cap and removing the chair, he tops off the shine with baby lotion and we get this remarkably stylish affect.
Next on his accomplished agenda was pouring water all over the bathroom floor, thanks to the Ikea cups and stepping stool. No big deal, easy to clean and distract attention to something new.
Taking a phone call I return to what he commonly refers to as the "chicken" to see the four-legged accomplice pushed up to the kitchen sink. The bottle of Dawn is empty and blue dots are peppered all over his clothing and covering the floor. Much to my surprise, soap is incredibly complicated to clean up. I would put it as a close second to sweeping up scrambled eggs.
During lunch I notice crayon all over the kitchen table just as he smears his jelly over his angled patterns. It happens to be near the corner of the table that has a broken hinge where the other part of the table used to be attached. Several weeks ago while I was retrieving a phone call he was leaning on this high quality Ikea table and half of it snapped off its hinges. The evening ended with me looking for him so we could wash up for dinner. I seek his muffled giggle, which led me to him sitting inside of the dryer .
The blur of dinner passes, Mike takes over and puts him to bed. I look forward to my evening of sleep. Of relative solitude, nothing to clean and no one to place in time-out. Just my head on a pillow, fully resting on my back preparing for another busy tomorrow.
I wake at roughly 4am and open my eyes. Something seems different, not quite right. I realize there is a warm 2-year-old body laying across my neck, draped legs dangling on one side of my face with arms and head gently arched to the other. He is sleeping on me like a human scarf.
Somehow the more he grows up the less escape routes and windows of safe time alone there are.
