- Published: Tuesday, April 21, 2015 08:32 AM
- Written by Katie Tyson
Callen and Olivia shared a bedroom until they were 4 and 6 year’s old, respectively. One afternoon, when they were barely 2 and 4, I put them down for their (my) much-needed afternoon nap. I listened via monitor to the precious toddler banter that was eventually replaced by quietude, save the sound of gentle even breathing. An hour or so later there were sounds of stirring. Then giggling. Faint pitter patter around their room. Then silence again – only this time it was the kind a parent intuitively recognizes as meaning that somebody is up to no good. Or, as the case may be, two somebodies.
I smelled it before I saw it. My feet were barely on the first floor landing when a faint but unmistakable odor hit: cod liver oil with a twist of menthol. My gait quickened as I ascended the staircase. So did my breathing – perhaps driven by the altitude change, the pace of my climb, or the thickening fumes. I could almost taste it by the time I pushed through their bedroom door.
There stood my diaper-clad bare-footed brood, grinning, caught Kabuki-faced and white-handed, their bedroom walls now adorned with a thick coating of freshly applied Desitin® reaching as high as their tippy toes could take them.
My “Mom look” must have spoken volumes: Olivia’s face crumpled and dissolved into tears. Without so much as a question, she quickly and fully allocuted for her crimes, ending summarily with “I wish I were you and you were me so that you wouldn’t have to be so disappointed in me.” Callen, on the other (white) hand, broke into a broad grin and began jumping up and down, gleefully exclaiming, “I did it! I did it! I did it!”