Icky Sticky Boys

 I used an entire magic eraser and entirely too many minutes scrubbing pitch off our sliding glass door handle this evening.  Just the handle.  It worked, so chalk that up to another "win" for Mr. Clean, but I am considering charging my time and the cost of the eraser to our boys' account.  I can't with those two...I don't even know where to begin.    

Sawyer came in the house while I was cleaning the kitchen before starting dinner prep.  I mostly ignored him when he said he put pitch on his hand.  I gave him a, "Well, that wasn't very smart," and that was about it.  I didn't look up.  I didn't stop my sweeping of breakfast, lunch, and craft debris from under the table.  He left for the bathroom.

A short time later, he returned to the kitchen and asked for coconut oil.  If you didn't love it all ready, coconut oil is a champ at removing pitch and Sawyer has proven this theory.  Because he already knew the consequences of touching pitch and because he said he, "put it on myself,"  I still wasn't giving him any attention.  I was on a cleaning mission and didn't want to be interrupted.  I told him I'd get him the coconut oil on my time and he could wait until I was done with the dishes.  Then I looked up.  Finally.  

I can't adequately describe the mess that was my son.  Imagine a kid wearing mittens.  Then imagine those mittens were made from pitch.  Then imagine the kid's little brother walked into the house at that moment wearing the same mittens!  

"Sawyer told me to," were Fischer's only words.  I hadn't even asked a question.  

"Why?!!?!" 

"Because I like how it smells," was Sawyer’s matter-of-fact response.  "I wanted to make our hands smell good."

I was without words.  I pulled my not inexpensive, organic coconut oil out of the cupboard.  Looked at it.  Looked at their hands.  And still no words.  Then Ross, having heard the conversation, walked in.  He had some words.  

"That was just a really, really dumb thing to do."   

The boys looked at their feet in silence.

"You are not using expensive coconut oil on this."  

Instead, Ross scraped the first layer off their hands. Then he rubbed off what more he could with a dab of gasoline on a rag (which, in our current reality, was probably equally as expensive as the oil) .  Finally, he had the boys scrub with soap and warm water.  

"They're better but still sticky.  We'll leave it at that and it will be a good lesson for them over the next couple of days," Ross told me.  

Sawyer slunk into the kitchen shortly after, "Can our hands blow up from the gasoline?"  he whispered holding back fearful tears.

"What? No!"  I told him.

Sawyer left still looking worried, and a minute later Fischer walked in. "Can we really not use our hands to eat for three weeks because of the gasoline?"

"What?!"

"That's what Sawyer said."

"You can eat," I said, stifling my laugh.  

I relayed the conversation to Ross.  They must really think we are terrible people.  Obviously, we then had to play the role.

"Hey Sawyer, your hands can't blow up, but I wouldn't hold them around fire or hot stuff for at least a few days," his dad told him.

"Yeah, like a toaster," I chimed in.

His eyes got wide, "Can they really?  Mom said they couldn't."  

"Well, okay, but if I were you..."

We had him going for a minute, but it finally dawned on him that his parents are the worst, and we were jerking his chain.  He relaxed...until he realized his fingers were covered in fuzz and hair and he couldn't pick any of it off because they were all equally sticky.  

And that my friends is karma.