THREE MINUTES.

I am pregnant. That means that I make unscheduled trips to the bathroom for indeterminant periods of time. These trips are not negotiable or postponable, as I am still in the throes of morning (noon and night) sickness.

Jacob is a toddler. That means that at any time, he could be doing absolutely anything. ANYTHING. There is no logic, no predictability, no sense to his actions whatsoever. He is, essentially, an unmedicated schizophrenic.

So today, during one of those trips to the bathroom, I noticed that I was accompanied only by the dog and one cat, not the toddler as is usual. All was quiet. I knew that was a bad sign, but there was nothing I could do. As soon as possible, I went looking for trouble -- and I found it.

In the LESS THAN THREE MINUTES that he was left unsupervised, Jacob pushed a very heavy dining room chair over to the counter, climbed up, reached the large container of Ovaltine (a chocolatey powder, in case you're not familiar with it) on the highest shelf, opened it, and mixed it thoroughly with the softening half-pound of butter that was on the island.

This, in case you've never seen it, makes a substance the texture of lard and the color of dung. This, he smeared all over his body, in his hair, and over every inch of countertop from the (formerly clean) sink of dishes to the microwave, up on the cabinets and down to the chair.

He apparently flung handfuls of the dry Ovaltine powder into the air, since the floor was covered. He also (apparently) dove facefirst into whatever was left of it, since there was a very dark brown ring around his mouth (differentiated from the dung-like brown coating on the rest of his face) that made him look like palsied snuff-dipper. Or perhaps a very poorly-made up minstrel.

All this, he did ONE HALF HOUR before I have to get him in the car to go pick up his Farmor (grandmother) from the airport. And I cannot stress enough that he did this all in THREE MINUTES.

I was hyperventilating. My son, standing on the counter, gazed down at me with concern.
"You crying or laughing, Mommy?"
"I haven't decided yet, Cub."

(He never does this sort of thing to his father, by the way.)

Pamela