We've learned to fear silence. The constant chaotic din of activity from our son is reassuring. Silence equals danger. Or at least some sort of domestic disaster.So it was a couple of months ago while I was at work. The little guy was busy, as always, running from item to item, constantly muttering to himself. My wife was busy as well, following him around in our little daily dance, trying to pick up after him. She was in the kitchen for a few moments when she heard it...the eerie lack of noise.
She went to investigate, curious and dreadful about what she might find. She called out his name. No response. Now slightly panicked, she hurried down the hallway to his room. There, smiling guiltily, in the middle of his creation, was our boy.
The baby powder had been less poured out and more caused to explode. It transformed his room into something like a talcum powder quarry. I actually had no idea a box of baby powder even contained that much powder. It was enough for the bottoms of countless babies. It was shocking.
There was no easy solution. The powder covered him, the floor, all the objects in the room...the decision: to clean the room or him first. My wife chose, quite naturally, to clean the floor first. Unfortunately, the disaster was not over. It was only moving. With powder falling constantly from his body, on his feet, and collected at the top of his diaper, the King of Chaos began to run through the house.
At some point, there were little powder footprints down the hall, in the living room - I picture an Indian guide like the ones in old Westerns, on his hands and knees, examining the evidence - "He was alone...there was a struggle...he ran this way, then came back, he was carrying something...a stuffed bear???"
Fortunately, in the madness, my wife thought to take pictures for evidence. Just another day with the little
monkey we love so much.
She went to investigate, curious and dreadful about what she might find. She called out his name. No response. Now slightly panicked, she hurried down the hallway to his room. There, smiling guiltily, in the middle of his creation, was our boy.
The baby powder had been less poured out and more caused to explode. It transformed his room into something like a talcum powder quarry. I actually had no idea a box of baby powder even contained that much powder. It was enough for the bottoms of countless babies. It was shocking.
There was no easy solution. The powder covered him, the floor, all the objects in the room...the decision: to clean the room or him first. My wife chose, quite naturally, to clean the floor first. Unfortunately, the disaster was not over. It was only moving. With powder falling constantly from his body, on his feet, and collected at the top of his diaper, the King of Chaos began to run through the house.
At some point, there were little powder footprints down the hall, in the living room - I picture an Indian guide like the ones in old Westerns, on his hands and knees, examining the evidence - "He was alone...there was a struggle...he ran this way, then came back, he was carrying something...a stuffed bear???"
Fortunately, in the madness, my wife thought to take pictures for evidence. Just another day with the little
monkey we love so much.
