Yesterday, Dude took a nap without my having to physically hold him. Well, he started that way, at least. The period of Dude-free arms could have been used to do something like laundry (of which I did manage three loads yesterday) or something equally productive, but I decided to do something slightly more decadent. I painted my nails. *grin* Base coat, a very pretty sage green colour, holographic glitter on a couple of fingers, top coat, and they looked marvellous. Just as they were touch dry, Dude squawked, so I put the polish into the windowsill and held him while he finished his nap.
Perhaps now is a good time to cover Dude's history with nail polish. Last summer, I came into the living room and could smell nail polish but couldn't for the life of me find the source. Later that day when I went outside to get something from the car, I found the smashed debris of a bottle of my top coat on the driveway under the open window. Cut to pre-Christmas, I painted my nails a festive shade of red and got interrupted before I could put the polish away as per usual. That afternoon I walked in to find Dude with the open bottle of red clutched in his smeary little hand, streamers of colour over the couch, the wall, the window and his clothes. I'd just had the sofas cleaned.
You'd think I'd have learned not to leave bottles within his (considerable) reach.
This morning, I popped out to the kitchen to get Dude a drink. When I came back in, that old familiar smell assaulted my nostrils. Clenched behind his back in an attempt to hide the evidence was a slightly open bottle of glitter. Sparkly drops adorned the arm of the sofa and his hand. While Jerkface mumbled "sorry, Mama" on loop I had to reclaim and close the bottle and run upstairs to get the polish remover and some cotton pads.
Needless to say, the polish has been put away. I'm treating the now slightly jacked up finish on my right index finger (damaged in the cleanup) as my just rewards for leaving tools of destruction within range.