I was writing another post very soon after the last one I posted. By very soon I mean a day or two. I was considerably into it when something happened. I pushed the wrong button or something. I'm going to blame it on the baby. He's always a good fall guy. He's too cute to get into any trouble. And he always blames everything on his older brother. When this something happened, I assumed my draft to that point had been saved because it usually works that way. When I went back a couple of days ago to work on it some more, I couldn't fnd it. I'd added pictures and everything. And now I can't remember what I was writing about. The pitfalls of old age I guess. No, wait, I'm not old. I'm 29. Yeah. I'm 29. I keep forgetting. Part of getting old I suppose. No! I'm not getting old. Sheesh!
So, I guess I'll just start all over. I posed the question a few weeks ago on facebook..."Do you know what happens when you give a 2 year old a snack sized Oreo McFlurry in the car and tell him to be careful and not spill it?" Assuming this question was rhetorical, no one answered. I had posted a picture along with it though so there waw really no need for a response. You know what they say, a picture is worth a thousand words. That may well be true, but I don't make a living with pictures. Words are my bread and butter. Well, they're not really my bread and butter. Trains are my bread and butter. Words are my obsession, I guess you could say. In light of that, here is an illustrated list of what happens when you give a 2 year old an Oreo McFlurry and tell him to be careful and not spill it.
First of all, he laughs maniacally because he now has physical proof that his mother is a SUCKER.
Second, if the pictures are any indication, he takes 2 drinks then rubs the cookie-laced ice cream concoction all over his hands, face, and knees. 
Third, he sticks his tongue out at his poor beleagured mother because he knows she's in for it when Daddy finds out. After all, Daddy had just spent the afternoon cleaning out her car. And when Mommy rats him out, which she most definitely will do, as she's know for her tendancy to throw absolutely anyone under the bus to save her own hide with very little incentive, he knew all he would have to do is tell Daddy, while looking at him with that now perfect smile, "I wuv ewe." He'd never see the first second in time out and we both knew it.
Fourth, he hangs his head in shame because Mommy has just lectured him about ruining a white shirt and shorts that both of his brothers had worn without destroying. He appears contrite but secretly he is proud that he did something neither of the older BKs was able to do. Even if it did make him Mommy scream like a banshee most of the 25 minute drive home.
Finally, he has the nerve, the unmitigated audacity, to tell his mommy that his hands are "icky". Since my son is working very hard to create his own, much more simplified language where "shosher" means shower, flip flop, and trailer, I understood that this meant his hands were sticky and he wanted to wash them. I suppose he was unconcerned with that his legs were sticky, his feet were sticky, his knees were sticky, and his face was sticky, not to mention the fact that the ice cream was in the buckle of his car seat and there was a good possibility that he would be stuck there. Of course, this really sent his mother over the edge. 
One of these days there's going to be something really wrong at my house but no one is going to pay any attention because they're going to think I'm screaming at one of the kids again. Big BK now says I'm a yeller. I'm okay with that. I told him to keep it up and I'd be a yeller and a spanker. He wasn't scared. I'm not sure why.
The next morning, after I wrote this, I'm posting it. I went to my blog and couldn't find it. I clicked on drafts and there it was. Along with the last one I wrote and lost as well as like 6 others that I've started and haven't finished. So, here you go!
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