She had a rash. She was tired. She was miserable. She wanted to sleep but couldn’t.
Our other three children were also in need. One was emotionally distraught over an upcoming jog-a-thon, another was not happy with her bedtime attire, and our young son was attempting to suplex anyone that crossed his path.
When all offspring are in need at once, I find the triage approach to be helpful. The rash was clearly the most life-threatening issue, followed by the suplexing toddler and the jog-a-thon situation . The pajama problem would be dealt with last if at all. So, with a plan in place, I headed to the rash victim’s room. I applied a salve to the affected region, all the while cursing the bargain Easter dress whose lace was likely to blame. Next, I dealt with the baby wrestler. A bottle did the trick. It kept his hands busy and his mouth closed. Problem solved. Back to the rash. Her anguish was untouched by the salve, so I hit up the freezer for the trusty, all powerful ice pack. Unfortunately, we had no pack, just ice. Chaylee, the afflicted one, loves to eat ice, so I searched for some frozen vegetables to use instead. None were sealed. The alternative solution? Frozen butter. We had loads of it and she hates butter, so there would be no danger of her ingesting the cure. I said a prayer, kissed her goodnight and promised to pick up the butter after dealing with the jog-a-thon problem–by then she would surely be asleep.
I am not sure what woke me. Perhaps my maternal alert system picked up a needy presence in the room. Or maybe it was the rhythmic thud of a child flying up the stairs at mind boggling speed to avoid the nothing behind them. I can’t be sure, but when I opened my eyes she was 6 inches away from me, standing sternly by my bedside.
“What is it honey? Did you have a bad dream?”
“No,” she replied indignantly.”I’m covered in butter!”
As my eyes adjusted to the subtle light from the alarm clock, I could see that she was indeed glistening. It was 2am. She had been rolling around on two sticks of butter for hours, slowly melting them with her body heat until she was fully glazed like a self basting turkey.
I took her to the bathroom as she cried. “I hate butter!!!!”
I attempted some fun word play to lighten the mood and hide my shame.
“Nothing like a little bed and butter.”
No laughter, just tears.
“You’ll feel butter in the morning,” I quipped.
After a thorough scrub down with warm rags and barrage of hugs and apologies, she was back to sleep — in our bed of course. Hers was smothered in butter. At least the rash was gone.
Poll: What food would you rather not find yourself sleeping in or on?
Family Fun Fact: Mike slept through this debacle. He learned of the incident by looking for his favorite pillow in Chaylee’s room. Didn’t see that one coming did ya Mikey?
In other news: This is my first blog attempt since departing my beloved Australia. It feels weird. But, I needed to get this story off my chest, and I thought it might help other mothers feel butter about themselves.