A few days ago I was up to my elbows in butter and onions making
these awesomely delicious scalloped potatoes (you don't have to make them GF, just use your regular flour, no other changes neccessary, and oh, I don't peel my potatoes - more potassium that way - and I also use a little minced fresh onion instead of dried), when Libby walked into the kitchen and started spreading this around the floor:
Dirt? I thought. Where did she get dirt? I stood and watched her for a moment, happy as a clam in her mess, when it dawned on me that this was not dirt.
It was ashes. From our fireplace. Libby had taken her clothes off prior to playing in the fireplace, but unfortunately dragged them into the ashes anyway. And spread the ashes all over the place. Butter and onions got placed on the back burner, and Libby, who had commenced rubbing ashes on her belly and saying "so, so, so" (soap, soap, soap - something I say when she is in the tub rubbing soap all over her body), got plopped in the tub, where she stayed until John got home. I took her into her room, got her dressed, then plopped her at the table with some crayons while John cleaned up the ashes (which included cleaning out the fireplace), and I continued making dinner. Thankfully, the ashes hadn't been ground into the carpet, so they cleaned up OK. Libby's punishment: child labor.
Not really, though. This pic is from a few weeks ago. When I do dishes, Libby like to take the sponge and wipe what she can reach of the table and counters. There was no punishment, after all, it was her slacker parents who left a neat toy like ashes in the playhouse (fireplace), and there was no harm done to the floors, herself, or dinner. I did explain to her the many reasons why I didn't want her playing in the fireplace or with ashes, but I doubt she understood any of it. She did get real still when I walked in the living room and saw the destruction there and said "oh, Libby". She has been testing me to see how close she can get to the fireplace now, but "hands-off" is thankfully a phrase she both understands and obeys.
Dirt? I thought. Where did she get dirt? I stood and watched her for a moment, happy as a clam in her mess, when it dawned on me that this was not dirt.
It was ashes. From our fireplace. Libby had taken her clothes off prior to playing in the fireplace, but unfortunately dragged them into the ashes anyway. And spread the ashes all over the place. Butter and onions got placed on the back burner, and Libby, who had commenced rubbing ashes on her belly and saying "so, so, so" (soap, soap, soap - something I say when she is in the tub rubbing soap all over her body), got plopped in the tub, where she stayed until John got home. I took her into her room, got her dressed, then plopped her at the table with some crayons while John cleaned up the ashes (which included cleaning out the fireplace), and I continued making dinner. Thankfully, the ashes hadn't been ground into the carpet, so they cleaned up OK. Libby's punishment: child labor.
Not really, though. This pic is from a few weeks ago. When I do dishes, Libby like to take the sponge and wipe what she can reach of the table and counters. There was no punishment, after all, it was her slacker parents who left a neat toy like ashes in the playhouse (fireplace), and there was no harm done to the floors, herself, or dinner. I did explain to her the many reasons why I didn't want her playing in the fireplace or with ashes, but I doubt she understood any of it. She did get real still when I walked in the living room and saw the destruction there and said "oh, Libby". She has been testing me to see how close she can get to the fireplace now, but "hands-off" is thankfully a phrase she both understands and obeys.
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