I was on the phone with our contractor last week when you slipped out of the living room. It took me a few minutes to realize you had gone into my room and shut the door. Not allowed, since whenever you're in there, you manage to find and unwrap all of Dad's biking snacks. So I called to you that the door had to be open, and you complied. I spent another ten minutes on the phone, and walked into the bedroom to see what you were doing. "What are you doing?" I asked, and before I even saw you, I heard you say, "I'm painting my nails."
This was not good news.
I went further into the room and saw that you were naked, covered head to toe (and fingers) in nail polish: a smear on your forehead, a bunch on your stomach, and streaks up and down your legs.
[Side note: You are watching me write this letter, and you just asked me if it could be about a duck.]
Anyway, I then surveyed the floor, which was covered in medicine. Unopened Dayquil tabs lay everywhere, and you held up a bottle of Liquid Children's Tylenol and said, "I was trying to drink this, but I couldn't open it."
More bad news.
I scrubbed your body with nail polish remover, noting peripherally that there was nail polish on the walls, rug and Dad's chair. I lectured you about the dangers of EVERYTHING YOU HAD BEEN DOING.
So now the attractive, but taboo materials have been moved--the main problem being that our bathrooms don't have any storage space that is out of your reach--and you are no longer allowed in our room alone at all.
By the way, all of Dad's biking snacks were also opened and lying on the floor. I will now only take phone calls if I can keep my eyes on you the entire time. I know I learned my lesson. But based on how hard you were laughing as I cleaned you up, I'm not sure you did.