Vaseline

I really considered writing this post from Evan's point-of-view, but doing so would demand that I really try to get inside his clever brain to reason out why, exactly, he thought it would be fun to play with a jar of Vaseline this morning.

Usually, where ever I am, there is Evan. Putting on my make-up (or, shall I say, cake-up-- as it is today to try to cover up these zits that keep sprouting for no reason) for work is no exception. He absolutely has to touch everything that I touch and do everything that I do. Evan's hobbies, in order of preference, are: 1) Mom, and 2) putting anything but garbage in the garbage. Again, today was no exception to the rule/pattern.

I was putting on my make-up, and Evan came into the bathroom so I could put some on him, too (do I allow my son to wear make-up? He can when he's 14, if he wants, but right now we just pretend). Evan began to gather up little fistfuls of things, perfume bottles, nailpolish, etc., and walked out of the bathroom with them. An action like this means I'll have to search the garbage momentarily, or it could mean that he's dispersing the objects to their rightful homes-- under the sofa, in his desk, in his toy box.

After I was done with my beauty routine, I went to find Evan. He was sitting on the floor in the living room, watching Barney, absentmindedly reaching into a jar of Vaseline and spreading it on his cheeks. An two-inch icicle of ointment hung from his jaw, leaving a slimy trail on his Batman Pajamas.

The time came that I had to take the jar away. I bartered with him: "Evan, if you give Mama the face cream you can have your bop." ("Bop" being Devenney-ese for "pacifier."). Strangely, he didn't protest, not even when I wiped the extra gunk off his face. Of course, while I'm inclined to applaud my active parenting, maybe he was just comatose from watching Barney and couldn't be arsed to put up a fight.