Bathroom Chef

"I made a new recipe!  Come see!"  A naked Deacon grabbed my hand and dragged me into the bathroom where he was supposed to be bathing.  Apparently he was cooking.

"Look!"  he exclaimed, pointing to the lid of a shaving cream cap that was filled with a bubbly substance.  

"What's in it?"  I ask.

"Shaving cream, water, and this," he declares, thrusting an almost empty bottle of bathroom cleaner under my nose.  "I think it's calcium."

"Did you drink this recipe?"

"No, it's a looking at kind of recipe."

Whew.  "I'm going to get some extra towels to wipe this up."

When I returned from the linen closet with towels, there was Deacon, using my hairbrush as a paintbrush, spreading the "recipe" all over the bathroom.  I was gone no more than thirty seconds.

"Deacon, what am I going to do with you?"

"Ha, ha.  You're funny, mom."

Unbroken

Yesterday was a momentous day at our house.  Deacon's cast came off.

It wasn't supposed to be off so soon.  But apparently casts also aren't supposed to be worn until they disintegrate, have food dropped down them, or be occasionally dunked in the toilet.

"Am I being a neurotic mother?"  I asked the doctor, as I showed him the sores all over Deacon's foot.

"Oh, no," he said, "that thing had to come off.  We don't keep casts on once they've been worn to pieces."

"This is good to know," I told him, "because I expect I'll see a lot of you over the next few years."

His parting words were, "Please keep Deacon off trampolines and anything else that could potentially cause him to injure his leg for the next two weeks."

I thought that was a particularly tough challenge the doctor issued.  But so help me, I would do my best to keep him from injuring himself.  And I did.  For almost 24 hours.

On Thursday a large box containing a new golf bag for my hubby showed up on our doorstep.  Consequently, I   spent Thursday evening getting a cramp in my hand cutting out cardboard "windows" in Deacon's "train."  Large cardboard boxes that my children love to play in are the types of objects that give my husband ulcers.  He had tossed that box upstairs, so he wouldn't "have to look at it."

This afternoon, I heard a loud rumbling noise that I may, perhaps, compare to the sound of a train.  I came running to see Deacon's train, with Deacon in it, roaring down the stairs at top speed.  Guessing that sliding down the stairs in a cardboard box was probably on the banned list of activities for the week, I pulled my crying train-wreck victim out of the box.  I began feeling his leg for breaks.

"Not my leg, my hand," Deacon sobbed, holding out his hand.

Great, I think, now a broken hand.  Can I please go 24 hours without a cast on some part of this kid's body?

"I hurt my pinkie," he said, holding up a hand with an extended pinkie finger.

And for some reason this made me want to giggle.  Really giggle.  But I held it together, because it's generally not considered good parenting to laugh at your children when they're in pain.

Unless you're my sister, Riki.  She's a great mom.  She just can't help that giggle.