Kimmy's third year of life can be summed up in two words.
Kimmy spilled EVERYTHING. It was like her arms and elbows were on amphetamines. One minute the carton of orange juice would be in the middle of the table; the next it would be rolling across the floor, catapulted by a 3-year old arm reaching for the syrup.
At least once a day Kimmy would manage to tip over something, usually liquid, most certainly sticky, and always voluminous.
(We considered enrolling her in Spiller's Anonymous, but they didn't have a local chapter in Milwaukee.)
In an effort to protect our home value, we had strict "eat only in the kitchen" policy. So when I heard her "I spilled" voice calling for me from upstairs that day I knew it meant trouble.
I gathered the paper towels and carpet cleaner and headed for the stairs. But what was she saying? Not "I spilled."
It was worse.
"I made a mess."
Holy crap, I thought. This must REALLY be bad. I mean, doubling the number of words used to describe a spill must indicate a truly significant mess.
I started praying. Dear God. Please don't let it be as bad as the infamous pitcher of lemonade spill. The one that left the invisible adherent that caused our feet to stick to the floor for weeks. And drew ants from as far away as the Twin Cities?
And God, please make it easier to clean up than all that stinkin' pink Amoxicillin that exploded all over the kitchen as a result of shaking a bottle that hadn't been properly closed.
I held my breath as I ran upstairs, praying for the best, but fearing the worst.
Kimmy was in the bathroom.
Oh no. A bathroom mess. The worst kind.
But Kimmy was smiling. She was pointing to the toilet bowl, the contents of which were shaped like the letter "S".
I had misunderstood her.
"I made an S," she repeated proudly. And she had.
Holy crap is right.