This morning, to appease the masses who were fighting over a single blanket (even though we have at least two dozen blankets of various size easily accessible to all) I made flapjacks. We had just settled in to commence the meal, when it was discovered that Devon had once again in his possession the coveted binky. Charles promptly ripped it from his mouth and threw it across the living room. Devon dissolved under the table in a heap and we continued our meal, occasionally avoiding Devon as he attacked our toes.
After the meal was finished I left to nurse Emily as her patience had at last run out. While everyone had stepped away from the table to return to various activities, Devon decided now was the time to act! He got himself a flapjack and proceeded to get it ready. That’s when he noticed the butter dish. Ahh, the butter dish, I don’t know what it is about this unassuming piece of crockery that attracts children so powerfully, but each child has had at least one episode with the dish. Today the pull of the butter was too strong for Devon and he proceeded to cover his plate with the remains of the butter, about a third of a cup. Next he realized that any artist needs another color to make their masterpiece complete so he assessed his options and turned to his old friend milk.
He dumped his cup of milk cheerfully over his plate and mixed with abandon. It was at this moment that he noticed the floor. The poor neglected floor, how much better it would look with a golden gloss. He began to help the floor regain its perky color with copious amounts of butter. It was dutifully filled into every nook and cranny. The joys of hard wood floors. At this point he decided to share his masterpiece, he came to get me.
I was nursing in the dim light of my bedroom so when Devon entered and proudly displayed his hands I could not readily determine what they were coated with. I laid Emily down and followed him out of the room and soon took in the full impact of Devon’s masterpiece. As I can be extremely eloquent when startled, I exclaimed, “Is that butter?” To which my proud two-year old nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, is that all butter?” Like I said, eloquent. So I commenced cleaning it up and sent Devon to change his clothes since they too burnished the golden goodness. Just a regular morning at the Bartholomews.