I knew it was going to be bad when the three year old stopped me at the top of the stairs and said, “Don’t go downstairs” and then disappeared.

I’d darted into the shower, after, of course, hiding all sharp objects, flamethrowers, and the Desitin. I figured I could escape for a few minutes, get a quick shower, get dressed, choose clothes for the kids.

When I came downstairs, the older child was watching pbs like a good girl. Sure, this may be a ploy; I’m onto her. But the fact that the Cremora was IN the two year old’s hands, as well as covering every inch of her body, led me to believe that she was the culprit. Her hair was blonde with cremora. The play-doh table was white. The floor. 16 oz–453 grams, to be exact–of Cremora was either ON or surrounding the child.

And she didn’t run away, didn’t know the severity of her crime. When she saw me, she just giggled and patted her head, little clouds of coffee creamer rising from her once-red hair. I tried dusting her off a bit, while she giggled. Then I just picked her up under her arms, facing away from me, and carried her upstairs and deposited her in her room. It was then that she started to cry.

I’m not really sure what to do. My first impulse was just to remove the criminal, lock her up. Then get the mess off the floor. I didn’t bother with the discipline, because we all know whose fault it is.

Now I want some coffee, to help those crazy synapses fire so I can decide what to do. Bathe the child, leave her in her room for awhile, run screaming around the house a few times, sit here and giggle quietly to myself?

But NOW I have no Cremora. Conundrum.

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