Powder, Powder Everywhere


I knew it was too quiet.  But it was such a nice change of pace that I didn’t investigate early enough.  That was my second mistake.  My first?  Leaving the foot powder by the front door, in the immediate reach of a particular two-and-a-half-year-old.

When I called down to see what Robbie was up to, he came within my line of vision pretty quickly.  But he looked odd.  A little ghostlike, actually.  I did a double take and then craned my head to see closer to the front door.  Everything was covered in a thick, white powder smelling strangely medicated.

Intrigued, I went downstairs.  Robbie was grabbing handfuls of powder and rubbing them into our (loaned) entry rug.  The powder covered six pairs of shoes, one needlepoint keychain, every hardwood crevice, one entire shelf, and one poor gnome.  It.  Was.  Everywhere.

I asked Robbie to follow me upstairs, and he started to but stopped dead in his tracks.  “Hold on!” he exclaimed.  We waited a few seconds.  Then he ran to one empty spot on the rug and left a last handprint.  He said, “There!” and proceeded to come upstairs.

I didn’t realize until, of course, it was too late that he had brought the jar of powder with him.  He ran, ecstatic, through the halls, shaking powder as he shrieked with glee.  I know I should have been angry.  But I couldn’t be.  After all, who wouldn’t love to run freely, spraying powder all over the place?  Because I bet you’ve never done it.


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