I am looking for a good deal on Scotchgard.
In less than 24 hours, The Pony had broken three eggs, knocked two magazines into the bathwater, spilled a can of Sprite, and dripped juice from a cup of diced peaches onto the rug. I suppose he's going through that awkward phase, the phase where a young boy's limbs are growing faster than his control of those limbs.
Tuesday evening, he went out to collect eggs. We've only been getting 3-4 per day, due to the blast oven temperatures hovering over Hillmomba. Still, that's about two dozen per week. Until this week. The Pony dropped the green and orange woven Easter basket that is the egg collector. He says he used some baby wipes to clean it up. I'm not checking. That's Farmer H's territory.
Later that evening, The Pony decided to take a bath in the big triangle tub in the Mansion master bathroom. He doesn't know how, but two magazines fell off the little gift soap wooden crate on the corner of the tub. He didn't bump them or touch them in any way, mind you, but somehow they defied gravity and leapt off their comfortable perch and into the water. And they hadn't even been looking depressed! The Pony rescued them, and performed CPR by dabbing at them with his bath towel. Then he laid them on the lone remaining magazine. Which of course meant that by the time I heard about it and went to check, I found three soaking wet magazines, which I promptly placed on top of the air conditioner vents.
Wednesday, The Pony knocked over a can of Sprite while reaching for the remote control. He started to wipe it up with his couch blanket, but the #1 son prevented that reasonable act, and sent The Pony hoofing it upstairs for paper towels. Of which he took ONE back down to the basement with him, and had to return again for more, because "...some of the soda dripped onto the rug, but I will get it out with a paper towel."
Shortly thereafter, a little #1 told me that The Pony then upset an individual fruit cup of diced peaches, sending juice onto the coffee table and rug. That's the Toenail Rug, people! The huge oval braided rug that my grandma gave me. It's not like you can toss it in the washing machine. And I don't think you can beat peach juice out of a rug. Or out of The Pony. Even if it's light syrup.
I might need to limit The Pony's forced child labor in my proposed handbasket factory, lest he unwittingly poke holes in them, thus slowing their descent into H E double hockeysticks.