All the Wrong Raisins
I know. I swore I’d never buy any more raisins. But like most other things I swear to do (give up sugar, drink more water, keep up on the housework, blah blah blah) … that kind of fell by the wayside.
It’s mornings like these when I wish I were better at sticking to my resolutions.
Colin and Cameron, my four-year-old and two-year-old, were playing quietly in their room. Should I have known that quietness = mischief? Of course. I’ve been a mother for nearly five years now (and I was once a child myself). But when you’re sitting at your computer, blissfully and obliviously reading blogs in the blessed silence, you tend to glaze over what may be happening in the other room and hope it’s the one time out of a hundred when they really are being good.
But.
The baby, who had been playing with his toys on the floor, came crawling up to me with a diaper blowout of epic proportions (we’re talking up-the-back here). I hadn’t smelled it because my nose is completely out of commission due to a cold, so it was a lovely surprise. The wipes are in the boys’ bedroom with Cameron’s diapers, so I carried Coby back there and pushed the door open. Here’s what I saw.
Cameron, diaperless, crouched in the middle of Colin’s upper bunk.
Colin, on the bunk bed stairs, laughing hysterically.
Upon closer inspection, I realized that Cameron had pooped, then taken off his diaper. On the bed. And not only was he firmly plopped upon Colin’s freshly washed sheets with his nasty behind, and had poo smeared all over his legs and feet and goodness knows where else, he was also rolling between his fingers what appeared to be …
… raisins?
Yes. Raisins. Raisins that looked like they could’ve just come from the bag, only, you know, plumper. Reconstituted, if you will.
I guess the child doesn’t chew before he swallows.
I mean it this time. No more raisins.
