Almond butter oozed down the leg of the kitchen island and spread across the floor. A new jar, at room temperature, when the almond butter is more the consistency of honey than say…nice, firm, chilled almond butter. Just then, Madeleine began shape-shifting.
“I’m a purple kitty, Mommy…meowmeowmeow,” she purred as she crawled in her kitty cat way over to where I was paused, deciding how to proceed with the mess before me.
She moved too quickly. She had crossed into the almond butter trail.
Someone help me.
“I’m a purple kitty, Mommy. I’m -” she noticed the brown goop on her hands. “I’m sticky, Mommy. I’m sticky.”
If I get almond butter in my hair does it count as a deep-conditioning treatment?
“Mommy, I need my hands clean, Mommy. I’m sticky.”
Luke ran in from his bedroom. He slowed down has he felt the resistance beneath his clean, white socks. He lifted one foot, the sock slowly peeling away from the gooey floor. “Eww! What is this? Get it off me, Mom!”
Why do I keep buying him white socks?
One calm kid, the other nearly foaming at the mouth. And then there was me. I guess I’m so used to cleaning up messes that they’ve lost all shock value. What’s a jar of almond butter spilled across the kitchen? The only thing worse would be – you know what, I’m not going there. Anything is possible.