... because otherwise, children wouldn't survive very long.
I was downstairs, colouring a client's hair, and I hadn't heard Gabriel and Nicolas for a couple of minutes. So I dashed upstairs a minute to make sure Gabriel hadn't wandered outside and let the baby outside too. (That's my worst nightmare, the baby drowning in our pond or getting hit by the cars that go at speeds of 80 to 100 km/hr past our house.) Turns out they were just jumping on the bed in my room. Which they are not supposed to be doing.
So I told them to get out. Halfheartedly. Because I figured, oh well, if that's all they are doing, at least they aren't getting into trouble. So I didn't insist.
I could hear them running in the hall upstairs and then they were back in my room. "Well," says I to my cleint, "at least we know where they are."
Ahh, but we didn't know what they were DOing!
Five minutes later I heard Gabriel go out the front door. I went back up to check that Nicky hadn't gotten out too.
Gabriel's hair was white.
"What is in your hair?" With a horrible presentiment creeping in.
'What?!" Horrible presentiment is a thing of the past, dread is what fills me now.
So I go to check on Nicolas, who is still in my room, and this is what I find:
A whole container of strawberries squished on the floor. A banana peel, also on the floor. And all over the bed? Two whole containers of grated parmesan and romano cheese. Apparently they got hungry while they were waiting for me to finish with my client.
It appears that Gabirel couldn't find the block of cheese so he decided to try eating the grated stuff. In my room. On my bed. With a 17 month old.
I am washing my sheets as I write, and my room still reeks of italian cheese.