Painting The Fridge With Peanut Butter

The terrible twos.
Do those words send shivers down your spine like they do mine? Those two little words evoke many awful and amusing scenarios but the most dramatic usually involve  my fourth child, David. As a baby he was a delight with sparkling blue eyes and a warm, loving personality. Physically he was plump and passive. He'd sit quietly, his head whipping from side to side, completely entertained by the activities of his older siblings. 

Anyway, who needs to bother learning to walk when you have three adoring servants to fetch toys for you?
In fact, David was fifteen months before he bothered to walk but when he actually started to move, he didn't stop.

Suddenly this "good" baby mutated into a travelling disaster. There was no malicious intent behind David's activities, just sheer joy in discovery. However, this baby's discoveries were most often messy. In fact,
this run-about-baby's exploits are simply legendary.

One morning, while nursing David's younger sister in the  livingroom,  I realised that David was no longer in the room with me. I strained  my ears to hear what he was up to but the house was oddly quiet, too quiet. The older kids were right outside, near the house but surely David hadn't opened the door to join them all by himself?  Since David was rarely quiet, I quickly put Emily up on my shoulder to burp her and started to try to discover where he was ans what he was up to.

 I found him in the kitchen and I stopped in shock. My fridge  was now covered in a thick layer of peanut butter. Every inch that David could reach was covered, -door handle, hinges, rubber seal... simply everything.

He heard my loud gasp of shock, turned around, peanut butter jar in one hand, with the other hand dipping in the jar for another large scoop and he cheerfully greeted me,
"Hi, Mummy!"

 Try to picture me scooping, scrapping, wiping and  the same time smearing peanut butter with paper towels.
 I then attacked it with very hot, very sudsy water. I  even required  an old toothbrush to reach all those joints and creases. The next week the entire artistic endeavour was executed with margarine! Soon after an entire wall was covered with a crayon mural of scribbles. Now that art job took a week of scrubbing when ever I passed by!

One of Michael's sisters once said to me,
"I am surprised that David turned out so well. I think it was because you didn't come down on him too hard."

 Somehow, I think I was too exhausted to react. I walked around in a daze some days and just let disasters roll off me. My dog eared  child development book  also helped me  roll with the punches because  I realised that I couldn't demand behaviour  that my child was not equipped  yet to mentally or emotionally produce unless it was out of sheer fear.

 I guess I knew David wasn't bad, just a very messy run-about baby.