I am in the kitchen making yet another meal (honestly, I feel like I spend half the day in there). Ian is noisily playing with his cars in the living room. Laurel runs to edge of the upstairs landing and yells, "Mommy, don't come upstairs." She then quickly turns her little body and runs back into the upstairs hallway.
A little red flag goes up in the back of my mind. "She's definitely up to something," I think to myself. But considering all the raw chicken goo on my hands, I decide to finish my task.
A minute later, Laurel again runs to the edge of the stairs and yells down at me, "Mommy, don't come upstairs!" and turns tail to return to her adventures.
"Oh yes, she's definitely up to no good," I mutter.
But alas, I am still covered in chicken goo, and quickly try to finish the prep work for the meal.
A third time Laurel runs to the edge of the stairs and commands, "Mommy, don't come upstairs!"
Finally, I am able to wash my hands and run up the stairs to investigate my daughter's evil doings.
Looking in her bedroom, I find nothing. Looking in her brother's bedroom, I find once folded socks, underwear and pants thrown carelessly from his dresser drawers, but no Laurel.
With a heavy sigh, I check my own bedroom. My bedroom is void of my little gremlin, but little giggles are heard from my bathroom. I walk in and find she has emptied my makeup drawer. All the little containers and tubes are now lined up neatly on the edge of the bathtub.
Lesson learned, I will keep my bedroom door locked. As for Ian's room, his clothes will just have to fend for themselves.