My daughter is an artist!

Although it has been a few weeks since I’ve seen her exquisite artwork, I’d venture to say that each masterpiece that Rosie creates is truly priceless. It never lasts long, though. About as long as it takes me to scrub down the walls in her room. Rosie is far too young for paint or markers, in my opinion, and at just two years old, she’s still eating enough crayons to turn her diapers unbelievable colors. So my toddler does not have access to what normal folks consider necessary for ‘art’. Lacking the proper supplies for art hasn’t slowed Rosie down. My first grader coined the word for Rosie’s fecal fingerpainting. The word, Pooptastrophe, rolls off the tongue so smoothly, when it’s fairly hard to make any word sound nice while pinching one’s nose. Genius, such great creative genius, my first grader possesses.

Without exception, Rosie needs more than a few piddly wipes to get clean. I believe that she must share her sister’s genius. I think that only a very creative child would cram her own poop into every orifice and crevice on her tiny body. Forget wipes. It takes a new Brillo pad, and maybe my husband’s power sprayer to get all the poop off. Then, lots of Neosporin and bandages for the baby’s skin… Honestly, we chose to paint the baby’s room with Kids Paint, making the walls a nonstick surface, so it wipes clean easily. Occasionally, my DH gives me some time outside our home. In turn, occasionally, Rosie treats her father to a piece of her distasteful design. My DH naturally reached for wipes, and Rosie just laughs, like:

‘Mwah-ha-ha-ha. Silly man! You think those will rescue you?

When my DH and I are at home together, and such a fragrant episode occurs, my DH defers to me on the cleanup. I guess he figures that I naturally have a stronger stomach than he does. (read: DH thinks that the time I spent riding in the back of an ambulance/serving in the ER and getting various bodily substances on my clothing makes me less likely to barf while cleaning and make a bigger mess.) I’ve got news for him. Having our three children, under five years old’ under one roof, in my exclusive care is what did it! Some days were all about survival. Whew!

Rosie has not suffered enough boredom in her crib lately to resort to creating another Stinky Masterpiece for me to marvel at. We have given her near freedom, by removing the gate from her crib, and putting the mattress on the very lowest setting. She can get in and out as she wishes. That’s good and bad. For now, I’ll quote Martha when I say, “It’s a good thing.” Okay, let see: No gate on the crib = no pooptastrophies. Why didn’t I think of this long ago?

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