I need to replace my furniture . . . and my carpet. My children have rendered them gross.
My son is the worst offender (duh). He has a long rap sheet of getting creative with the distribution of foodstuff and worse.
A couple of weeks ago, he comes out the door where my husband and I are talking covered in brown stuff. My first instincts are to suspect the worst, of course. But one sniff and and was reassured it was not poop, but Nutella. He had gotten ahold of a half full jar and had painted himself with it.
My remorse for the loss of the Nutella was overwhelmed by my desire to keep the mess contained. I dragged him farther outside and hosed him down. Once he had been cleaned up, I thought it prudent to check the front room furniture.
Yeeaaahhh . . .
The arms and cushions of the arm chair and couch were as badly smeared as my son had been.
After the clean up, I grounded him from both Nutella and Netflix.
Little good it did me. A week and a half later he repeated the stunt with the worse brown stuff from his diaper.
That's when the potty training started in earnest.
