My daughter has been high on the antics lately. In some cases, literally. She likes to climb on the piano (despite the fact that she gets into trouble nearly every time she tries it). At the moment, there is a large box on top. The past several days I've found her perched on top of the box on her toes, reaching out for the ceiling, and saying, "Wah, wah?" It took me a couple of times before I realized she didn't know the word for ceiling and was calling it a "wall."
And let me tell you about the eggs. Oh, the eggs. About a month ago, I discovered that my daughter could open the refrigerator door. I didn't realize what a problem this would quickly become. I was amused, at first, to find the ketchup bottle sitting by itself in the middle of the bathroom floor. But then she discovered the egg cartons. I make her eggs for breakfast nearly every morning. She alternatively calls them "hah" (hot) or "hek" (eggs), and she'll eat two or three of them at a time. All of which was fine, until she decided to try making them herself.
Last week, Adam was meeting with his prayer group one evening and our daughter was alone with me. I don't remember what I was doing in the living room (crocheting, most likely), but I was suddenly aware of an unnatural silence coming from her bedroom. As I got up to check it out, I heard little footsteps padding down the hallway and into the kitchen. I followed to find her in front of the open refrigerator door holding a dripping egg carton.
I told her to set it down (well, shouted, really) and took a closer look. The carton had about a half dozen whole eggs, plus a cracked one that was dripping onto the others and out of the carton. I carefully washed the whole eggs, so they wouldn't stick to the carton later, then replaced them in the fridge. I was about to sigh with relief at yet another crisis averted, until I remembered the quiet in her bedroom.
Four eggs. And their shells. All on the carpet. That sigh wasn't about relief. Neither was the screaming that followed. Mostly mine. A little bit hers. And Formula 409. God bless the inventor of Formula 409.
Oh, and we may have to revisit that duct tape on the diaper thing. My little Houdini-in-training has now figured out how to get her diaper off from under a onesie. I don't know how she does it, I just know she does.
It's been a busy Lent.