The Day They Almost Died

I'm laying it all out there right now and I'm hoping that you'll all be loyal and not turn Trevor and I in. Just in case you really are feeling a pull toward the phone and have DCFS on speed dial, let me remind you that we do, in fact, love our children and the guilt we have over this incident is in the extreme. I swear it.

You're all aware we moved on January 15, a Saturday. The very next Thursday I was on my way to Vegas for Amy's wedding (another post, another day). I didn't get home until Saturday evening and there was just sooo much to be done in the new house and Trevor had been working a lot. Add that to every other excuse in the book and maybe you'll understand that we really had no other choice but to skip church on Sunday (BTW, you always have a choice).

The day started out fine. We got good jump on the kitchen. We decided that our bedroom would be the next logical place to unpack. The logic being that I needed a haven to retreat to when the overwhelming path of boxes overtook my sanity. You see, it just made good sense. One of the greatest things about the new house is a decent backyard for the kiddies to play in. The were all out there when all this logical unpacking was commencing. It was all going so well. We have a little balcony off our bedroom that overlooks the backyard. Every so often we'd glance down and check on our brood. All was well.

Then it wasn't.

Preston's little voice bellowed up at us from inside the house. Something about paint and Abby and Will???

"WHAT?!!!" We replied. By the time we got out our bedroom door (1.3 seconds later), Abby was already upstairs in the bathroom attempting to wash what looked like purple paint off of her hands and feet. That's when we saw it. Little purple footprints up the stairs and down the hall all over the brand new carpet in our RENTED home. Are you freaking kidding me?!

I would love to say I have blocked out the next fifteen minutes from my temporal lobe, but I haven't. I can't. It's branded in there like a hot iron on a starched shirt. We screamed and we yelled and we...broke blood vessels in our hands and the white parts of our eyes. It wasn't pretty.

We threw (yes, that can partly be taken literally) Carson and Abby into the tub (lukewarm water) and instructed them to start scrubbing. Then we went downstairs to get the story from Preston. He's the most guilt ridden of our children and therefore, can be counted on to give the most accurate and honest report of any given incident.

As it turns out, William started it. Automatically, he's released of any guilt. 18 month olds have no common sense worth mentioning. He found a small can of wood stain, yes, wood stain, on the side of the house and because he's 18 months old and the devil in a diaper, carried it across the yard where Preston intercepted it. All should have been well at this point, if only my 9 1/2 year old had as much sense as my 18 month old.

Instead of putting said stain up and out of reach of his baby brother, or informing a parent, Preston proceed to chuck the can of stain across the yard. What on earth does that accomplish? We were baffled. Couldn't William have just walked back over there and grabbed it again? What was the point? Preston couldn't find the point either.

Miraculously, the lid of the can stayed on. But then again, folks, I have a 7 year old that has as much common sense as his older brother. He walked over to the can, picked it up and took off the lid. Not expecting such a thin liquid, the force of the lid removal sloshed the stain up and over the rim of the can and all over the front of Carson completely covering the front of his brand new Nebraska football jersey. That's when Trevor had to bite his knuckles to keep from weeping. Feeling and seeing this, Carson panicked and dropped the can onto the lawn. Stain went everywhere.

Seeing a commotion and having to be a part of it, William waddled over and found his artistic side, by finger painting the grass.

Preston, ever the third parent in our home, grabbed the baby and yelled at Carson to help him clean Will up. They walked into the house (leaving a discriminating purple trail behind them) down the hallway and into the downstairs bathroom. After scrubbing and scrubbing Will and finding it impossible to remove the STAIN from his hands, they realize that they're going to have to face the wrath of mom. At that moment, Abby (my daughter that I thought had more common sense than all three of her brothers put together, but was sadly mistaken) came into the house ankle deep in purple wood stain.



That leads us back to the beginning of our story. Abby, trying to find me, took her little purple feet up the stairs and down the hallway and the fury began.



First things first, the carpet. We had to save the carpet. We called my dad. He's the master of staining carpets. This man once rebuilt an engine on our family room floor. No dice. Dad didn't answer. On to Trevor's dad. He was at church too, but his mom was home and she had more common sense than Trevor or I who were still in our blinding red fury and referred us to Trevor's Uncle Don, the carpenter.

Uncle Don saved us. Lacquer thinner, he said. It'll take out the stain without hurting the carpet and you can use it on the kids skin too. Perfect. The ox was in the mire and I was off to Home Depot for Lacquer thinner.

When I got home the lukewarm water was now cold but that was part of the punishment. I made them wait it out while I administered CPR to the carpet. It worked. Like magic. In a matter of minutes it was gone without a trace save the overwhelming fumes of the lacquer thinner.

It was at this point that Trevor and I were secretly whispering to each other that we may have over reacted, especially since there was no lasting harm done. Guilt was slowly creeping into our hearts. But we still had to put up a strong front for the little miscreants.

I walked into the bathroom with the thinner and a towel.

"You're next Carson. I sure hope this doesn't sting and burn." I threw that last part in for good effect. Sometimes fear can be an ally, I thought. I've used it before.

"Really mom?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Most likely."

"I'm scared mom."

"I would be too. But, hey, that's why you should never ever play with paint."

"I'm so nervous."

Abby pipes in. "Mommy I'm scared too."

"You should be." I'm so tricky like that. It's not going to hurt. Uncle Don said so...and then I put the thinner dipped towel to his skin.

The stain came right off and the big red blister came right up. Carson started to scream. Horrible pain filled pleadings of mercy. I frantically started scrubbing the area (his tummy) with soap and water, but the cries didn't stop. Trevor scooped him up and ran him to our shower to get a better stream of water on him.

Abby turned to me with tears in her little eyes and said, "I don't want any of that Mommy." I was sick with myself. I'm such a horrid, horrid mother. Carson came back stoic, but shaken. And then the power shifted in their favor. Warm towels, loving words and many, many, MANY apologies later, we finally got everyone settled. They forgave us. They always do when we're idiots.

We confessed to our parents, who were surprisingly supportive, even offering up their own shameful past experiences. In my parents case, Holly and Heather spilt a gallon of bleach on the carpet of our new home, when they were 7 years old. Instead of getting Mom and Dad, they ran down the hallway, into the bathroom, to get TOWELS to clean it up. Besides ruining the towels, they ran through the puddle of bleach and left little bleachy footprints all the way to the bathroom and back. When I asked Mom if she and Dad reacted badly (begged her to tell me that they had, actually) she reminded me of the fist-sized whole in the wall of that house. Dad's fist in fact. Mom covered it with a mirror. I have to say, at least he hit the wall and not them, and they had a better excuse to be insane with fury than I did. The stain came out of the carpet. Bleach does not. When I told Mom that their reaction made me feel better, she reminded me that it didn't make it right. Such a mom thing to say.

So to sum up, my kids have no common sense, but they come by it honestly.