Cremora isn’t just coffee creamer.
Cremora is the magic pixie dust of creativity.
Cremora is great for giving your stuffed animals showers.
Cremora gets sticky when wet.
Cremora, when swept up, takes off into the air in clouds.
Cremora when breathed in makes you cough like an asthmatic.
Cremora doesn’t like my vacuum cleaner.
Cremora comes in handy, bulk sizes, to save you money.
Cremora is all over my floor and toddler.
Again.
The attack of the Cremora Kid, Part II, occurred this morning.
My kids play every morning for HOURS, only taking breaks to eat a quick breakfast. This morning, I needed a few minutes to do some work.
I get on the computer after sending the kids to go play downstairs. I’m catching up online with my boss to make sure the day’s work is covered and to hear about the birth of my other boss’s first child (Yay! Baby!)
10 minutes pass, and I hear the kids happily playing downstairs.
Then, I hear these fateful words, from Kelsey (the four year old): “You’re makin’ a mess!”
I run. Seriously. I can cover some ground pretty quickly.
At the bottom of the stairs, there’s…well… the bottom three stairs used to be covered in light brown carpet. But it’s just this off-white color now?
And there’s the older kid, and the toddler, and the huge bottle of Cremora. And there’s Alex the lion, soft-puppy the puppy, and squiggly puppy the puppy, transformed into off-white soggy creatures with puffs of Cremora clouds wafting over their heads.
I am Terry’s exploding brain.
After I put my brain back into my head, holding it in as I jog down the stairs, hoping it won’t all leak out my ears in fury, I slow my pace as I make it down to the children. I see that the older child is mostly just collateral damage. I know who the villain is. She is at the epicenter of the Cremora explosion.
Mere seconds have gone by since I heard those words of warning from Kelsey. And it’s rather amazing the range of emotions I can go through in so few seconds. Trepidation, fear, amazement, anger, fury, calm, humor, within milliseconds of one another.
So by the time I got to Laurel, I had only to raise my voice to her, showing I was angry, to let her know that such behavior is NOT acceptable. She immediately burst out crying. I carried her to her room and placed her in her crib so I could clean up the mess. I sent the four-year-old to wash her hands upstairs.
After the cleanup, I discuss the incident with Kelsey, letting her know that such behavior isn’t OK. I try to impress on her how important it is that she come get me when she thinks her sister is doing something she shouldn’t. I need to get this one on my side early, the informant. She’ll be useful in the coming years.
I then gently bathe the Cremora-covered toddler, her little leftover sobs and teary eyes breaking my heart. I find the pink of her skin. I clean all her crusty crevices. I wash the off-white from her auburn tendrils, dry her eyes.
I towel her off, dress her in her favorite pink dress, smooth her hair. “I love you, Laurel.”
“I love you too, Mommy.”