Last night I was the closer while Oodgie went to a late appointment. I took over with a strong lead; Cheeky had been perky and chattering all day, and was pulling the driver out of her toy truck like a monster snatching it's prey. Oodgie rushed out, leaving me with only one major activity before bedtime: the tub.
Cheeky's tub skills have radically improved in the last few weeks. She used to treat the water like lava, clutching and tugging my shirt screaming "IT BURNS! IT BURNS!" (at least that's what I heard in my head) but now we can't get her out. She splashes, drowns plastic farm animals, and sucks the urine-juice out of the washcloth forever. Piece of cake for a solo parent, right?
We'd been in there a while, and it looked like she was ready to get out of the tub. It seemed a reasonable assumption, what with her leg on the tub rim and her audible grunts to pull herself out. I gave her my hand, and helped her over the edge.
Before I go on, I should mention that Cheeky has been channeling lately. At inopportune moments, her eyes roll back in her head and the Tasmanian Devil starts speaking in tongues through her. These episodes will last a few minutes, and can usually be arrested by the proper application of Big Bird. She then instantly reverts to a placid, peace-loving creature.
At the moment her wet little feet hit the bathroom rug last night, the demonic possession began anew. Refusing to acknowledge the supernatural nature of the attack, I assumed she actually wanted back in the tub. WRONG! OK, so let's get out of the tub. WRONG! No problem...I still outweigh her, and since she looked clean to me I wrapped her wailing body in a towel and stepped out of the bathroom.
Suddenly her catecholamine level blew off the chart. She started to vibrate down to her molecules, and the volume and pitch of her screams began to mimic shuttle launches. Within moments she, her towel, and I were covered in half-digested lasagna.
I stood there holding my yelling, pasta-covered child in sheer awe at how rapidly the situation had deteriorated. I have no idea what it would take for me to get so upset I'd blow chunks (perhaps this?) so you can bet I couldn't guess what was doing this to her. I was more impressed with the speed and intensity of the event more than anything else.
I figured she was probably empty by now, so I walked back into the bathroom (where the tub was still full) and dunked her back in like I'd hit the bulls-eye at the carnival. A couple furious scrubs and the chunks of meet and sauce were off. I carried the twisting, dripping beast into the bedroom, yanked PJs over her head, and plotted my next move.
That, my friends, is why it's important to have parental first-aid kit on hand.