On this particular Thursday afternoon, the little darlings were having a lovely time playing together while their mamas tried to get some knitting done. (More on how hard it is to make a crocheted peach that looks like a peach and not a strange and possibly naughty stuffed object later.) Just before the first mama took her leave, we heard The Boy announce that he was “making oatmeal.”

Jamie came back into the room laughing about how cute it was that they were “pretending” to cook oatmeal in the play kitchen. Heh. After a request from me, she stuck her head back in and reported that they did, indeed have the oatmeal out, but that it was “not that bad.” The oatmeal is normally stored three shelves above the ground at my own eye level in the pantry. Climbing in the pantry is on a list of Major No-Nos, so it only happens once or twice a day.

This should have been my cue to imitate an Olympic hurdler on the way to the dining room. But, because I’m very, very foolish, I spent about 60 seconds to get to a good stopping point and then walked the few short steps to the dining room. Big Mistake. Huge. Epic Mommy Fail.

The entire neighborhood heard the screams of “What are you doing in here? NO, this is Very, Very Naughty! What were you thinking? AND WHERE IS THE G^$-D@#&ED CAMERA?” (Okay, so I owe them a penny.)

The children were, of course, appropriately cowed, and showed their embarrassment by grinning, grabbing double fist-fulls of oatmeal, and throwing it up into the air. Then they giggled maniacally. At least they Fear My Wrath.

Everyone except She Most In Need of One (Mommy) got a short time out and then “helped” with cleaning up the oatmeal. Yes, that is approximately 3 pounds of oats scattered all over the dining room. I estimate that my child’s child will still be finding oatmeal in the crevices after I die. While us mamas were policing the last of the mess, the three miniature stooges snuck off into the living room, where they got into all of the knitting bags and pulled apart at least two projects and tangled at least one more.

“THAT’S IT! OUT! Everyone OUTSIDE! I don’t care if you live here or not, YOU’RE ALL GOING OUT!”

While the short people ran circles in the driveway (Ian was shouting, “It’s Raining, Monster Max is pouring,” apropos of I have no idea what), I remarked, “well, I suppose I should just be glad he didn’t decide to make eggs.”