Monday, November 23, 2009

Petroleum Pickle

Even though I really want to forget this incident right now, I realize that someday in the very distant future, I may want to look back and laugh. (Obviously, you can see that Cambria is quite upset by the situation-- not.)

So we have this little bedtime battle thing with Cambria. She thinks she needs the amount of sleep required by a college student cramming for exams. You will think she is sound asleep, only to hear little feet pattering on the floor and the sound of. . .
Monday night: pages turning in books (investigation reveals a cozy library session with bedside lamp turned on)
Tuesday night: drawers opening (impromptu fashion show)
Wednesday night: quiet plastic clinks from a dark corner of living room (sneaking down to play with farm animals, thinking we won't hear her)
Thursday night: 156 ridiculously unnecessary potty trips ("but Mommy, I no go potty in my panties!" - this is called the child's trump card)
Friday night: giggles from room (up in JD's bed, trying to sneak his stuffed animals down to her bottom bunk while he is asleep)
Saturday night: library session in our room with our bedside lamps turned on in our bed
Sunday night: I need drink, I scared, I hungry, I thirsty, (etcetera, etcetera)
And yes, to those of you who have some great quick solution, I have been extremely consistant, firm, disciplined appropriately, sought advice-- pretty much everything I could think of. It is draining to spend all day with your little people and then all night, too. (Not that this is going to change for me anytime, soon, but hey, might as well up with a helpless baby instead of a defiant toddler!)
And then came the night of the vaseline. I thought she was asleep. She should have been. It was 9:45 pm and had been absolutely quiet for some time.
Little feet on the stairs.
"Hi, Mommy." totally cheerful
I look down at her. The front of her purple pajama top (appropriately emblazoned with owls- hey, maybe that's the problem) is smeared with vaseline. Her hands are coated with it. Her blonde hair is filled with the entire container (I checked) and standing on greasy ends.
I cried.
I put her in the tub, investigated the damage upstairs (miraculously minimal) and proceed to try to shampoo out the mess. Three complete washes and I can tell that I am going to need something other than shampoo. I toweled her hair off, protected her pillowcase and put her in bed, planning to tackle the problem in the morning when I could be calm and rational. (I did calmly throw the owl pajama top in the trash without even a smidge of guilt for not trying to salvage it.)
The next day provided some much needed comic relief for Daniel when he got to see the petroleum princess- he howled with laughter, and I had to admit, it was funny. She spent the day with a kercheif over her head. She hated it. I liked that. I didn't have time to deal with the mess until late that night; I started with the first suggestion someone had given me after I humbled myself and put up a public plea for help on Facebook. Cornstarch did the trick, bonded to the vaseline, and we washed it right out with shampoo.
It's just never dull, being a mom. Nope, not around here.

Trans-Siberian Orchestra

This is me and Daniel
and Lydia and Tim
and people for the next six blocks, apparently unsteady on their feet after a night with TSO and the lights and lasers!