Little Z is into scribbling these days.
He sit happily and makes lot marks on his paper. A couple of times he ventured his artistic talents on the wall next to him and I cleaned it up and reminding him sweetly, "only on paper." He would nod and chirp "ok," so nicely that I really thought he'd oblige.
Today, he was upstairs and awfully quiet, so I went to check on him. I had one of those moments that closely resemble the mom who came home to find her two young kids had covered her living room in white fluffy flour. Her voice saying "oh my gosh" in a pained whisper kept playing in my ear as I scanned our top floor.
He'd made it his canvas with an orange marker and an assortment of colored pencils. His scribble marks were everywhere. The desk. The stair rails. The plastic toy boxes. His new clothes. His delicate skin. And every. Single. Wall.
We started steaming and wiping away. I've recently discovered that our steamer is probably my most treasure possession in this phase of life. We were so focused that I realized Little Z was once again out of sight and very quiet. So I ran back downstairs to find him covered in ointment. One shower later we have no orange marker lines and a very greasy little fellow.
Thought of the day:
Stress is man-made.
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