As soon as Simon went down for his morning nap, I cleaned the bathroom and then took a shower. After that, I got all nicely dressed, and put a nice outfit on Nicholas as well. I went into the kitchen and cut myself a piece of fruitcake. Nicholas begged for some, so I gave him a taste; he seemed to like it and asked for more, so I gave him a second small piece. After that, things started to go downhill.
I was in the bathroom putting on makeup when Nicholas toddled in, made just enough noise to get my attention, and then spat out his mouthful of cake. Since it was that very dark, heavy kind of fruitcake served at weddings, it made a large and ugly stain on the front of his shirt, which he then obligingly spread across his chest with equally sticky hands. After I recovered from my shock, I chided Nicholas, and then worked for several minutes to get the worst of the mess cleaned up. At last, resigned, I turned back to the mirror -- only to hear the door to the hall closet creaking open and Nicholas's voice chirping, "I need to get my bwoom. I frowed up on my wagon."
I hurtled out into the kitchen to find Nicholas sweeping vigorously in the midst of a large smear of fruitcake, spreading it far and wide. And yes, he had indeed thrown up on his toy wagon, which was (of course) covered in red felt, thus making it difficult or impossible to clean. I made various incoherent sounds of horror and dismay, to which Nicholas listened with interest, and promptly whisked the broom away from him (to which he objected strenuously) so I could wash the goopy bristles off in the sink. Then, somewhat absent-mindedly because I was still staring at the wreckage of my white linoleum, I gave the broom back and got down on my hands and knees to start wiping up the mess.
Big mistake. "I sweep Mommy," announced Nicholas, and promptly whacked my back with the wet and none-too-clean toy broom.
Can I reserve a spot on that desert island now, please?