Pablo Sick-asso

The whining was beating a tattoo on my eardrums, piercing my soul and draining all my energy.   It was pushing a headache from the depths of my cerebellum and out my forehead - wishing I had a spork to perform a self-lobotomy and end the torture.  My temples were keeping the beat of the Black Eyed Peas song bleeding through the speakers. Or, maybe it was my ears bleeding. Hard to tell.  

The little whine-o climbed into my lap.  I kissed her forehead in the hopes that it would be the panacea to end both our troubles.  My ther-mommy-ter immediately detected a problem: the impetus for the complete meltdown was provoked by a slight fever.  All of my plans to enjoy the beautiful weather were jettisoned and replaced with a Peppa Pig marathon.  Emmeline and I toasted flutes of orange juice and sipped chicken noodle soup with our pinkies extended.  Then I cocooned her in a giant blanket and there she lay, unmoving, for an hour.  That's how you know she is legitimately ill because she's typically jumpier than a frog in a frying pan. 

She decided that she wanted to go upstairs to get one of her babies to cuddle with on the couch.  I could hear her rummaging around - presumably to locate the most difficult of babies to find because the one on the top is NEVER the right one.  A few moments later I call up the stairs "Emmeline, are you ok?'  "Yes Mommy!  Me are pwayin wif me baby."   I sit down to enjoy a few more sips of my tepid Earl Grey while Emmeline is momentarily entertained. One minute...three minutes...ten minutes pass.  I want to believe it is because Emmeline is under the weather and is playing nicely by herself.  I also would like to purchase a lovely bridge for sale from a unicorn real estate agent.

"What's going on, baby girl?' I ask as I meander up the stairs. "Me are in your woom!"  Oh. Crap.  I practically trip over the swath of destruction leading the direction in which I will locate my 2-year-old.   A wayward ladybug rainboot.  Baby blanket.  Some of Lena's princess dresses and play shoes that are under STRICT order to not be even breathed near in her absence. The carnage grows as it leads me closer to the master bedroom.  My navy striped shirt.  Three of my husbands socks.  A pink striped scarf. The dog bed and a blanket. A Cinderella dress.  Red plastic sparkly high heels. A gaudy necklace. A tiara and fairy wings.  It was the toddler version of the Running of the Brides at Filene's Basement.  

How is it possible that THIS MUCH HAVOC could have been created in so little time?  I thought I had stepped over the worst of it.  But that was just the opening act for the master bathroom.

Apparently nothing makes you feel better than painting with Mommy's new jar of moisturizer - especially using a pressed powder sponge to ensure all the little nooks and crannies get the proper amount of anti-aging cream. 

Unless it's excavating Mommy's blush with your fingernail and painting the dog with the shards. Because EVERY princess needs a pink sidekick - even if you have to craft one out of Physician's Formula.