In September, when we were preparing the boys new rooms…
OK. I’ve seen a lot in my short decade as a mom. Especially since our third was born. This was new to me.
DH and I (and the 3 children when the whim hits) are painting Blue’s room. A really cool shade of green, sort of army, but not so dark. When one paints a room, you are, of course, forced to really examine the walls, and even the ceiling. There is that up close, personal view of every square inch of space, making even a small room feel interminably large when faced with trim out work. And so we saw it. It was right there, above the spot where the top bunk used to be. Near the bladeless ceiling fan, sans blades for the real potential danger that Blue would swing from them. It was a sort of smear, kind of chunky, varying in color and texture and covering about 7 square inches of supposed to be clean white ceiling. Blake and I looked at eachother and knew, nearly instantly. I went to find Blue.
(me, with face of near nausea) “Blue, hon, come here and let me ask you about something.”
(Blue, all innocence and curiosity, running in from the den) “Sure Momma, what is it?”
(me, again, starting with deductive reasoning) “Um, Blue. Tell Momma who used to sleep in the top bunk in your room?”
(Blue, stating the obvious) “Me.”
(me, hating where this is going) “Uh huh, and tell Momma who likes to occasionally pick his nose around here?”
(Blue, with absolutely zero compunction) “Me, Momma, that’d be me!”
(volley back to me) “OK, then, if you used to sleep on the top bunk, and you sometimes like picking your nose, would you please tell Momma what that might be on the ceiling in your room, right where your old bunk used to be?”
(the booger picker, with pride) “Oh, that?! I had boogers in my nose, I took them out, and I put them on the ceiling!”
And off he went to view his art work again, before we get out the bleach and the putty knife, quite tickled with himself. All this time, a little mucous mural has been slowly, yet surely building, right under our noses, and quite literally, in his. I don’t remember signing up for this. Yet, here I am. Boogers on the ceiling. The story of my life.
