I Get Bleed

We got a bunk bed for the boys last week.  On the top bunk, standing up, the boys can easily reach their aged, popcorn ceiling.  We've laid down the law firmly: absolutely no touching the ceiling; asbestos kills; you could get very sick!

A few minutes ago I hear this from Soren in the back bedroom, "Anders is touching the ceiling! Anders is touching the ceiling!"  So I cruise back there, note the snowy white mattress and Anders in the act of scraping the ceiling with the back end of a toy hummer, sweep the culprit off his feet and into his naughty spot/crib, all the while sputtering a war cry that can only come from a mother concerned.  I shooed Soren out of the room and closed the door with Anders wailing indignantly "I not touch the ceiling!  I not touch the ceiling!"

A few minutes later I reentered his room to insistent repetitions of, "Sorry Mommy.  Sorry Mommy.  Sorry Mommy.  Come get me.  Get me Mommy.  Get me.  Sorry Mommy."  I put my hands on my hips, squared my shoulders, and stared him down, "Anders, do we touch the ceiling?" My demand met with a raised chin and a cheerful, "I not touch a ceiling, Mommy."  "Do you know you could get very sick," I asked him?  "Yeah, I get died and bleed.  I not touch a ceiling, Mommy."  As I reach down to rescue him from crib purgatory, I echo what we always request after the naughty spot, "You need to say sorry and give me a hug and a kiss, Anders."  He did much better, the little heart-melting bugger.  He burrowed into my shoulder, wrapped his little hands around my arms, rested his head on my shoulder and said perfectly, "I love you, Mommy."