It's Icy And It's Hot

Am I just prone to disasterous episodes in my life? Or is it karma coming back to bite me in the ass for being the kind of kid who got threatened with the wooden spoon by her Auntie Cheryl on a regular basis. Or is it because I was never actually paddled with that wooden spoon? For whatever reason, the good Lord has blessed me with the kind of kid that regularly sends my mind spinning off into the world of psychosis. Perhaps I am too uptight. Perhaps I am too orderly. Perhaps my eight year old son was hired by the Coalition For Anarchy to reign terror in my house because the Coalition For Anarchy just happens to like watching my slow decent straight into the looney bin while munching on a bag of microwaved popcorn and a slurpee.
Although I don't really understand why this ficticious coalition would harbor such malice for me.
Yesterday, after Cris was deposited back into my care by his Grampa, I was instructed to rub some Icy Hot into his sore arm. This would be the arm that he caught in the door at school. The arm that felt like "maybe some bones popped out but then they popped back in again". THAT arm. It needed some Icy Hot because that is his jabbing arm and Cris has a fight on Friday. Since I am brilliant, I assured Cris that I would put the Icy Hot on his arm AFTER his shower, BEFORE bed. Since I am an idiot...I should have known better.
I made the mistake of setting the Icy Hot out on the counter, in plain view and well within reach. It wasn't long before a powerful odor of stink came wafting out of the bathroom and down the hallway with smoky little fingers to pry at my nostrils. Upon investigation, it became clear that not only had Cris applied the Icy Hot HIMSELF, but he had also foregone the common soap and water to remove its greasy residue and opted instead to simply smear the crap all over my hand towels. And the bathroom sink. And my leather couch. And his shirt. And he stunk something POWERFUL.
Both arms...yeah BOTH arms...the injured arm and the perfectly GOOD arm were both lathered with Icy Hot. So much so that I swear I saw foam.
Well suffice it to say I flipped my wig and sent him to his room with the remainder of my handtowel to wipe the stuff off. Moments later the phone rings. My dad calls to ask me how Cris is feeling. How is his arm. How is he doing. Is he resting. Is he happy. Is he ready for bed yet. And so on. And so on. So as I am shoveling food into the baby's mouth with one hand and clinching the cell phone between my chin and shoulder, I go into my tirade about the awful kid who has just been sent to his room and how he decimated my bathroom single-handedly with 3/4 of a jar of Icy Hot and how the tender membranes of my nostrils are still burning from the stench of it and surely it has permeated the entire house forever and periodically I hear little indignant shouts echoing down the hall.
"I DIDN'T LATHER IT MOM."
"I DIDN'T USE THE WHOLE JAR MOM."
"I DIDN'T GET IT ALL OVER THE PLACE MOM."
And as I process these little cries of outrage, I realize how freaking ridiculous I am. I am on the phone TATTLING on my eight year old for doing something that any EIGHT year old would do. And furthermore...as I begin my reflection, I realize. Its pretty darn funny.
This child of my womb exited the shower singing, half-ass dried himself off, admired himself naked in the mirror, slowly dressed himself with his t-shirt inside out, slid into his slippers, opened a jar of Icy Hot, grabbed a handful of gob, spread it all the way up and down BOTH arms, wiped his paws on my hand towel, finished wiping them on my counter, gobbed up the water faucet as he made a lame attempt to rinse off what the towel didn't remove, gave up, wiped his hands on his pants, came out into the living room happy as a clam, leaned up against my new couch and began drumming his goopy greasy fingers on the leather, completely engrossed in the Yu-Gi-Oh cartoon and surrounded by an aura of stink.
And this is what I did.
I smell one of the most foul odors ever, I instantly realize that the Icy Hot has been released in some form or fashion, I spot my kid leaning lazily on my new couch, I notice streaks of greasy fingerprints on the leather, I flip my wig, I race into the bathroom, spot the goopy gunk clotted to my hand towel, shriek, grab the towel, notice the goopy gunk smeared across the tiles on the counter, shriek, frantically scrub at the counter, reach for the faucet to wet the towel, plant my hand firmly in a deposit of Icy Hot, shriek, run back out of the bathroom, command that the child remove ALL OF THE ICY HOT FROM BOTH ARMS WITH THE TOWEL HE HAS ALREADY RUINED, send him to his room, slam the door, finish feeding the baby, talk to my Dad on the phone, realize I'm a fool, call the child out of his room, put one arm around his waist and declare..."You know you made a great big mess doing that. And it really stinks in here."
And as I see that smirky smile spread across my son's face, I wonder, WHO GAVE ME AUTHORIZATION TO BE A PARENT SOMEBODY REVOKE MY LICENSE I AM A DISASTER.
But then I fed him a pint of Ben & Jerry's Cookie Dough Ice Cream so I guess I'm not all that bad.