Thank goodness no one was hurt.
It's a miracle that James is okay.
I guarantee that we will never be so negligent again.
Okay, now that I've gotten the necessary disclaimers out of the way, I'll let you know what happened.
Last week Jared took the initiative to remove the storm windows and replace them with our seasonally appropriate screens--not a small job. I was thrilled to see this kind of action on my husband's part because a) I'm far too lazy to do it my self, and b) he's usually kind of lazy, too.
But there he was, going from window to window, whistling while he worked, mingling the occasional swear-word into the melody. He repaired a few screens, he cleaned the windows spotless, and he even let James follow him around with a plastic replica of a jack-hammer.
Several hours into his project, I announced that dinner guests were on their way and Jared would have to finish up later. He happily quit the job mid window-wipe and came downstairs to take a shower.
Three days later, after the task had been long completed, I brought a kicking and screaming James upstairs for his afternoon nap. I put the overtired little angel in his bed, tossed him a couple of books, and shut the door behind me.
As I flopped on the couch to watch a mid-day soap or three, I was amazed to hear almost nothing coming from James's room--there was total and complete silence. I let out a long slow sigh, licked the chip grease from every finger, and thanked the air that my kid was finally sleeping.
Imagine my disappointment when I heard James screaming and crying ten minutes later. I marched upstairs ready to hurl my forty pound bundle back in bed, but let me tell you, that plan was quickly shot to hell. When I opened the door, I found my three year old son holding a bottle filled with bleach spray.
Please understand, we don't usually let our child play with heavy-duty cleaning chemicals unsupervised--the spray bottle was inadvertently left upstairs after Thursday's window washing extravaganza. And of course, being a developmentally normal three-year-old, James found it, loved it, and used it.
I approached James slowly and said, "Whatcha doing bud?" and he casually replied, "I es just cweanin' for da summah!"
"Well James," I replied, "It looks like you've gotten everything! I'll take your soap now." And he willingly handed it over. Then I took James out of his bleach-splotched clothes and immediately put him in the tub.
After his bath I went to assess the damage and I've got to admit, the kid barely missed a spot. He had bleached everything from his walls, to the floor, himself, his monkey stuffed animal, his rug, his furniture, his books, even his nightlight.
His room still smells like an indoor pool, and we start the full-out remodel today. And trust me folks, this room needs a full-out remodel. It looks like a DeadHead's paradise--every square inch is tie-dyded.
I spent my entire Mother's Day brushing up on CPR, the Heimlich Maneuver, and thanking God and Mother Nature that my child wasn't injured. In between prayers of gratitude I occasionally pictured myself whacking Jared in the gonads with a frying pan--but those images didn't last long, this was an honest-to-goodness mistake.
We're just sad that we're no longer in the running for the Parents of the Year award.