Give 'Em Some Wigs And They're Practically Barristers.

This is what happened the other day.

Here is the story behind it. 

They were playing so nicely- so nicely- the kind of playing where they actually held hands and spun and sang made-up language songs and I felt- if only for a moment- that we were rather Von Trapp-ish. 

And in that moment, I decided to put away some laundry I had been folding. Specifically towels. Their destination was less than five feet away. But here's the rub...those "five feet" were around a corner and down a short hallway. 

As soon as my back was turned, Nora- because, really, it must've been Nora, right? Zuzu is a foot and a half high- climbed a shelf, retrieved a gigantic bottle of baby powder, and powdered her sister. In the face. And the room. In its face. 

Remember that part of Amelia Bedelia where Mrs. Rogers asks her to "dust the furniture" and Amelia throws a bucket of dust all up in that joint? (Also- remember when she had to "draw the drapes?" I still chuckle about that one, occasionally. Mostly late at night when I have trouble falling asleep. Sketching curtains! Amazing.) Anyhow. The furniture was "dusted." Susannah's two monkeys were dusted. The crib and stuffed animals and rocking snail and area rug and humidifier and a small stack of books were dusted. 

Their expressions when I walked back in- and let's remember, this dance party went down in under two minutes- were the stuff of daguerreotypes. Alarmed children frozen in time. (Covered in powder.) Nora looked unsure of how to best play this. Zuzu looked guilty and immediately repentant, like the good little Catholic that she is. 

"These things happen, Mom," Nora assured me. "It's okay to be sad for a minute." 

I got the vacuum. The girls screamed, because- Mother Of The Year that I am- they so rarely see a vacuum in play that they actively fear it. But I turned the thing on and attempted to get most of the powder. And I did- briefly. Until the back end of the vacuum exploded, coating everything on the first floor with a fine sheen of baby powder. (Did I mention that I had mopped earlier that morning? I had mopped earlier that morning.) 

I bathed Zu. Twice. (Nora, miraculously, didn't have a speck of powder on her. SUSPICIOUS.)   

The haze of powder in Susannah's room was so thick that it looked like a [sweet-smelling] London morning. Thankfully it was a 70 degree day in Chicago- since we've obliterated the planet- so I could open her windows and crank her ceiling fan. I wiped and scrubbed and vacuumed and laundered. 

Two days later, the first floor still smells like baby powder.  Two baths later, so does Susannah. 

And every time she lets out a little kitten sneeze, I'm sure that she's got the Black [White?] Lung. But as Nora tells me- It's okay to be sad for a minute. Besides, in Zuzu's relatively short life...

...She's definitely smelled worse.