Mother's Helper 

Mother's Helper

I have some distance now, and I can see that it was funny. Destructive, but funny. Potentially dangerous and obviously illustrative of my lack of brains, but still a teensy bit funny.

A few nights ago I was lying on the couch, clearly out of breath, trying to get Connor and Riley Kate to listen to a story. Rory got up from his tower-building endeavor and came over to me, asking, "Mommy, you okay? You a little bit sicky?" I replied, "No, Rory. I am just tired because I painted too much today." I had been painting my bedroom-- I need to get these things done quickly while Chris is out of the house, because when he catches me doing stuff like this, he tries to stop me, citing pregnancy concerns. Puh-LEASE. If I didn't do manual labor while I was pregnant, I wouldn't have done any work for the past bajillion years, given that I have been pregnant for my entire adult life. But I digress. So I had been hurrying, trying to get an entire room painted during Chris's three hour absence. Not an easy task, and I was tired. Ror pressed further, "You're soooo tired, Mommy? The paint is HARD WORK?" "Yes, Rory, because the baby in my tummy makes it a little hard for me to bend over to reach the paint tray. So I'm just taking a little break." I encouraged him to go down to the playroom and wait for me, because after the story, I intended to finish painting while the three of them played in the playroom, which is right outside of my bedroom. Ror cheerfully said, "Okay!" I had closed my bedroom door, which Ror can't (or, COULDN'T UP UNTIL THAT DAY) open.

Less than five minutes later, Connor and Riley Kate and I trooped downstairs so that they could play while I painted. (For the pregnancy harpies out there, it occurs to me that I should reassure you-- yes, the paint is latex-based and safe for pregnant women to inhale the fumes, AND I had the windows open.) I came downstairs to find Ror not in the playroom, and the door to my bedroom was...OPEN. I looked inside. There I beheld Ror, who had, in five minutes, painted an entire wall (well, as high as he could reach), along with the carpet and himself. He had evidently begun with a roller, but finding it cumbersome, had flung the roller onto the floor (WITH PAINT DRIPPING FROM IT) in favor of simply using his hands to scoop up gobs of paint and smearing it on the walls. He cheerfully said, "I'm HELPING YOU!" I took one look and screamed, "RORYYYYY!" He looked absolutely STUNNED that I hadn't reacted with surprised gratitude, and immediately he burst into tears. I realized quickly that the whole incident had in fact been MY fault, given that the kid clearly had good intentions and *I* had allowed him to go downstairs unsupervised with only a closed door separating him from a can of paint sitting on the floor. So I quickly said, "THANK you for being SUCH a great HELPER! Wow, this is SUPER!" He went back to grinning. I went on, "It looks like you got a little bit of paint [and by little, I mean half a can] on the carpet, so why don't you play in the playroom while Mom cleans up?" In the meantime, I gated Riley Kate into her bedroom (also adjoining my bedroom), knowing that she'd be in the thick of the mess the instant she was given the opportunity. So while I was scrubbing, Ror apparently sneaked up behind me and took the roll of paper towels and Fantastik. A few minutes later I heard his little voice saying, "I'm cleaning up!" I turned around, and found myself staring at Ror's eye through an empty paper towel tube. I asked, "WHERE ARE THE PAPER TOWELS THAT WERE ON THAT TUBE?" He didn't need to answer. I glanced behind him-- he had unrolled EVERY SHEET and laid it on the carpet, and was now spraying each sheet with Fantastik.
I quickly said, "Ror, you have done SO MUCH great helping today that I feel ALL better. I'm not even tired anymore, but YOU must be, after all of your hard work. Why don't we put you to bed?"

He willingly went to bed while I attempted to salvage the bedroom. The next morning, he woke up and proudly told Chris, "I'm Mommy's big helper! I painted your room!" Chris thanked him profusely.

I am thanking his guardian angel that he didn't EAT the paint or spray himself in the eye with Fantastik, and get the vapors every time I think of it, but I am still making a scrapbook page for his baby book, relaying the story of Rory's Big Day of Helping. Perhaps I'll include photos of the two days of scrubbing and solvent applications it has taken to help the room RECOVER from his helping.