The Kid Obviously Enjoys A Greasy Breakfast. . .

This morning Mac got up earlier than usual.  This typically isn’t a problem because it means a longer afternoon nap.  However, we have company visiting this weekend and I stupidly decided earlier this week that the house needed yet another purge.  So not only am trying to thoroughly clean, I’m also creating mountains of crap that need to be addressed before Saturday.  I need all the free time I can get!

As you will soon learn, this wasn’t the only poor decision I’ve made this week.

Anyway, Mac was awake before I even finished my first cup of coffee.  This almost always makes for a minor mishap as I don’t really function before 2 cups.  He was in a good mood so I thought maybe he could “help” me bake some brownies.  They were just from a boxed mix – nothing complicated.

Of course, I immediately recognized the error of my ways.  In order to bake even the easiest brownies, I had to open no fewer than 4 cabinet doors.  Each time, Mac thrust himself into the open cabinet ready for exploratory action.

Thanks to a design um debate my Husband and I had during the kitchen remodel, I’m stuck with these deep cabinets which rapidly get crapped up with items lined 5 deep in some spots.  Guess you know who won that debate huh?  So accessing a mixing bowl, measuring cup and vegetable oil was not as simple as just grabbing and slamming the door shut.  A certain amount of shuffling was required.

I managed to procure all the needed materials and Mac had a head and arm in the final cabinet I opened.  So I thought to myself, “Self, you just cleaned and organized those cabinets two days ago.  There’s nothing dangerous or weird in that particular cabinet.  Why not let him have some fun for a few minutes?”

Self is a stupid asshole.  

I moved to the other side of the kitchen to start mixing up the brownies.  Of course in our home, the other side of the kitchen is only 4 feet away.  Mac was still on his stomach with his pudgy little arms thrust in the bottom shelf of the cabinet.

I measure the water.  I measure the vegetable oil.  I turn around as I’m reaching for some eggs.  And I think to myself:

Oh Self, isn’t that cute, he’s moved one of those flexible yellow cutting boards on the bottom shelf and he’s rolling a small green ball on it.”

Then, as I’m cracking the eggs, I realize Mac doesn’t have a small green ball.  He has a small green hexagon from his shape sorter set but we hadn’t played with that yet this morning.

Odd. . .

The second cup of coffee starts to kick in.

Also, how did he get that yellow cutting mat so flat on the shelf?  It was propped up on the side of the shelf wedged in with some baking pans.  How did he do that?

Things aren’t adding up. . .

I peer over him into the cabinet.

He certainly did not get the cutting mat perfectly flat on the bottom of the cabinet.  And he definitely did not have his green hexagon.

Rather, he made himself a breakfast of 32 ounces of OLIVE OIL using the bottom of my perfectly clean cabinet as his plate and was presumably using the GREEN cap as a spoon.

Yes, it was an unholy mess.  But the more pressing concern at this point was figuring out how to get Mac out of there without a tantrum.  He was having the time of his life – the most glorious of greasy breakfasts!

Killjoy mother that I am, I attempted to scoop him up.  Even with his cotton onesie, he was sufficiently slick enough that, well, he was sort of like a squirmy greased pig.  Naturally, he was protesting loudly.  He made himself completely rigid, rolling all over the floor creating a dangerously slick spot in the middle of the kitchen.

Abort!  Abort!  Clean up greasy kid later! Helpful dumbass Self screams.

I turned my attention to the oil slick in the cabinet.  I began ripping items out of the cabinet.  I tried to appease Mac with a greasy can of black olives and a jar of peanut butter.  He was having none of that, copious tears cutting through the grease on his red squinchy face as he loudly protested the disruption I had caused to his single item breakfast buffet.

In another moment of brilliance, I put him on the dump truck pedicure death machine.  He was so slick with olive oil he was practically sliding off!

“Clean Kid!” Self hollers.  

What followed was the biggest piece of half-assed clean up triage I have heretofore ever performed.  Even worse than that night I drunkenly slopped raspberry sherbet all over the wall. . .

But as I stood there with my third cup of coffee, I had to admit the kid might be on to something. . .my kitchen floor looked fabulously shiny. . .and my knees felt soft as silk.