Glitter is Mommy Anthrax II: I Doubt Martha Has These Problems

The thing about Motherhood is that it provides me with a never-ending supply of anecdotes so that you, my readers, can laugh at my pain.  I choose to laugh right along with you because otherwise I would be locked in a rubber room in a stunning ensemble that doesn’t have armholes. 

It’s been a while since I’ve been on Pinterest.  It is such a time suck and I feel inferior to all the other women out there who have the time/creativity/army of employees to sew their own clothing, pack organic lunches, and concoct their own fabric softener.  

(Let’s pause here for a moment, shall we?  WHY would one make one’s own fabric softener, or any household cleaner for that matter, when these items can be easily purchased for minimal money?  That’s the beauty of progress . . . it’s 2012 and we can purchase these products already made!  It’s called Evolution, folks.  Aren’t we just regressing if we eschew progress instead of embracing the industrialization that eventually culminates in a trip to Target?) 

Okay.  Pinterest.

I was perusing the other day and got a bug up my *ss to make a Fourth of July wreath.  I made my necessary purchases last night during a particularly eventful (screeching, lollipop-throwing, "I wan git out") trip to the craft store, and today Medium and I got to work.  He cut out felt stars for me in red, white, and blue, and we decided to add glitter to the edges to make them spaaaakly.  We used a plate to catch wayward glitter and began decorating.  This is not my first time at the rodeo, you see, and I didn't want to make a mess.

In the interest of being frugal and teaching Medium a lesson in resourcefulness, I folded a sheet of paper in half and fashioned a little funnel so that I could pour the excess glitter back into the tube.  Wouldn’t want to waste any perfectly good glitter. 

I was on the last set of stars.  I worked at the counter, and Medium was sitting on the counter with his feet in the sink and playing with the faucet.  Yes, I know he’s 7; he’s easily entertained.  He extended the hose and was checking out the mechanics of the nozzle.  As I tapped the side of the glitter tube to make sure it settled, Medium turned the water on while it was facing me.   

Chaos ensued.

1.  It's a Beer Baby
2.  It's water and glitter, you sickos.
I'm not Monica Lewinsky

I jumped, startled, and glitter flew ev-ery-where.  It was caked onto my arm, but unfortunately I did not get a photo because I was too busy middle-naming him and experimenting with a new octave.

  

Trying to clean up glitter is like trying to get It’s a Small World out of your head.  You can try and try and try to get rid of it, but it’s still gonna be there.  (You’re welcome.)  Once glitter is on your hands, it magically ends up in your hair, in your eyebrows, in your ears . . . in every nook and cranny you have.  Since the glitter landed on the kitchen floor, it ended up on our feet, so we can look forward to soon seeing it in every room of the house.  I’ll consider it free decorating.  Every room can use a little bling.

For months I will be finding glitter in unexpected places.  That's what I get for liking the spaaaklies.

This is what was left AFTER I washed and scrubbed.

Yes.  That's gonna be there forever.

 It bears repeating:  Glitter is Mommy Anthrax.  That's correct . . . this NOT the first time glitter has proven to be my nemesis.  Read about yet another Glitter Fiasco here.  Apparently it's a lesson best learned the hard way.