Desperately seeking wine and a closet

What's the protocol for a kid who attempts to brush her teeth with Softsoap Lavender and Chamomile hand soap?

Please don't say call Poison Control. Please don't say call Poison Control.

Shit. I knew someone would suggest it. Oh well. She hasn't thrown up and she told me she didn't swallow any. Not to mention, I'm fairly certain Charlie learned a valuable lesson here: soap doesn't taste as good as it smells.


That was yesterday, and everyday lately. Coupled with Josie's bloodcurdling screaming, something she's taken a liking to lately - in the car, in the bathtub, in the middle of the night, in my ear (which I'm certain will cause me to go deaf by the time she's 4) - my week alone with the kids has been just fantastic.

French doors, bottom freezer, Josie stealing chocolate and a chilled Charlie.

On Sunday, we watched in mock horror as she pulled a kitchen chair over to the fridge and climbed in. For real. Word to the wise, fellow homeowners, if you have small people living with you and you need to purchase a new refrigerator, pay special attention to all the ways that appliance could be used. Think like a 23-month-old when considering your appliances, or else this could happen to you, too:

I'm actually surprised no one has climbed in and sat down in the freezer compartment. Or found what's left of the ice cream.

Speaking of her outstanding use of chairs, today I ventured downstairs from showering to find her up on the kitchen counter "washing" her hands. The kitchen smelled delicious. The hand sanitizer was everywhere. No, she didn't eat it. Or the ChapStick she found. Or the miniature Sharpie markers.

Why, yes, I do store my lip balm and markers in the same canister on the counter. Who doesn't? When you've spent the last five years in a house two sizes too small, you learn to make do with what you have, and I happen to have two canister sets and not enough flour to go around.

Now that the Goober is napping - she was pretty tuckered out after the daily fight to put real clothes on - I can sit quietly and listen to all the reasons why I am not allowed to rest my legs on my exercise ball. I've just been informed "He is thems daddy!" Wow. Just wow. Apparently I was resting my weary knees upon the father of all smaller balls in this house. Mind. Blown. I need a nap after that revelation. And to warn my husband.

This comes fast on the heels of Josephine demanding we decorate the living room walls with stuffed animals. Literally. There are things in the wall still to hang pictures from (brackets? hanger? wtf are they called?) and it seems the brain of a 3-year-old finds them to be the perfect places to hang toys from that have a string sticking out of their heads. Here, let me show you:

Wha...? Yeah. Toys as decorations. Amazing.

So much for my Americana themed room. This ... this just works.

It's only 3:30 p.m. so the day is young enough for even more craziness. Craziness that will have me posting later that I deserve alcohol and a bigger closet in which to hide. The kind of whacked out crap that will make my childless friends wonder if they really ever want to take on their own munchkins (the answer is a resounding yes, because as crazy as kids make us, we love them and their adveturousness and will have awesome stories to tell their husbands/wives someday).

Despite the crazy yet to come, I still have to run to the Rescue Mission drop off (really, 47 Onesies? And there were way more because I kept a bunch just in case) and go check the mail at the other house and try to shove as much random shit still in the rooms there into boxes to bring back so I can sort and throw out and wallow in memories of our first home ... which will never sell if I sit here telling you about it instead of cleaning.