Ugh. What an awful week. Way to go, 2015. Way to go. I feel stupid even telling this story right now, but since I don't think there will be an Official Moment When It's Okay To Blog About The Time My Child Painted Our Cat With The Contents Of My Makeup Bag, let's just get throw this crap out there like a shiny, distracting set of jangly keys.
So. Tuesday. It was a snow day around here, and a long-ass one at that. Jason and I were in the kitchen making dinner. We'd already blown through our Blue Apron meals for the week and had to fend for ourselves with the menu-planning, which predictably led to us choosing and committing to a delicious-looking chicken recipe while completely missing that it involved an HOUR and FORTY-FIVE MINUTES of active cooking time.
The boys were all in the foyer, building a giant amusement park out of Duplo blocks. Because of course they were. Because the bin of Duplo blocks was only IN the foyer in the first place because I'd promised it to a friend with younger toddlers. Because my children hadn't even opened it in a good six months. They'll never miss 'em, I promise!
(They are now the single greatest toy we own and have completely taken over the foyer and about half of the kitchen.)
Okay, so I need to clarify that "the boys were all in the foyer" is a damned dirty lie, because at some point we heard Ike calling to us from upstairs. He sounded a bit distressed.
"THERE'S SOMETHING ON MY LEG. GET IT OFF MY LEG."
Jason went to investigate. I rolled my eyes, because he'd yelled the same damn thing at me just a couple days earlier and it turned out to be indentations from the inside seam of his pants.
This time, though, Jason was like, "What the...?"
And then, "Uh, Ame? Can you come up here?"
Long story short: Ike snuck upstairs to the master bathroom and proceeded to just...TODDLER DESTRUCTOR the shit out of it. All the drawers were open. He'd used a stool to access the medicine cabinet. The floor was covered in shaving cream. Lipstick doodles all over the cabinets. Mascara on the walls. The counter was cluttered with further cosmetic carnage — a now-empty bottle of spray tanner, squished lipsticks, pulverized blush, squeezed-out squeeze-tubes of God knows what, and most upsettingly...a couple loose tablets of Motrin and no sign of the rest of the bottle.
Ike looked deeply ashamed. Ike did have a perfectly logical explanation, however.
"I WAS GIVING THE CAT A BATH."
I don't even think Jason and I registered any single known human emotion or reaction in that moment. We both became animated emoji gifs on the fritz, trying to figure out what to freak out about first, vascillating wildly between OH EM GEEEE to DOUBLE U TEE EFF to WHAT THE SHIT?
Jason focused on the missing Motrin bottle and ascertaining if Ike had eaten any, while I ran around looking for Max. Then all the dinner timers started going off in the kitchen, because GREAT. An hour and 45 minutes of effort, coming together at precisely the wrong second.
The Motrin was eventually found (upended in a drawer, next to my mascara wand, and a goopy, cat-hair coated tube of Bacitracin), as was the childproof cap (on the floor, behind the trash can). Ike kept repeating that he hadn't eaten any of them and we could find no evidence to the contrary.
Max was nowhere to be seen.
I went downstairs to rage-serve dinner while Jason attempted to clean things up.
Max casually wandered in a few minutes later. He was...sticky.
It appeared that Ike first colored on him with bright red lipstick, and then tried to wash it off with mango-scented shaving cream.
It also appeared that Max DGAF. He was as chill as ever. He just wanted his damn dinner.
And seriously: We heard NOTHING to suggest that anything out of the ordinary was happening — Ike is a good, trustworthy kid who sticks to his brothers' sides like glue 99% of the time, and Max (being a Siamese) is not exactly a QUIET cat. And I know we can hear him yowling in our bedroom from downstairs since he does it all the time when he's playing with his toy dog or stuck on the wrong side of a door.
Ike didn't have a scratch on him, either. Which suggests that Max at least patiently tolerated all this. Or maybe even liked it?
LOOK WE'RE MAKEOVER BUDDIES YAY!
I had to give Max a bath, though, which he also (mostly) patiently tolerated, right up until the moment I decided to take a picture, which is ALSO the moment Ike opened the bathroom door and Max leapt out of the tub and into the hallway. I tackled him in a giant soppy-cat puddle before he made it too far. But then a thoroughly-startled Ike slipped on the water and fell on his butt, crying while I slammed the bathroom door and wrestled Max back into the tub.
(IKE IS NOW BANNED FROM BATHROOMS. ALL OF THEM.)
I shampooed that cat three times with three different shampoos and still couldn't get all the lipstick off. I eventually gave up because look at this poor thing:
Ike went to bed early, without dessert or watching a show with his brothers. He is deeply, deeply sorry, he says, and will never do it again. (RIGHT. CUZ YOU ARE BANNED FROM BATHROOMS.) The medicine cabinet has been reorganized to improve my youngest child's chances of making it to adulthood, JESUS CHRIST, and is mostly clean other than some additional scribbles I found behind the door. I have embraced a natural, make-up free look because guuuuhhhhh.
Max — amazingly — does not flee Ike's very presence and has accepted multiple Apology Hugs. What a trooper.
Tl;dr does anybody know how to get lipstick out of cat fur thanks.