Yesterday I decided to be a hero and make my son a smoothie. My friend, T, suggested that this might be a good way to get his bowels moving since constipation (due to his immobility) is a concern. So armed with fresh fruit, juice, greek yogurt and an awesomely cool Mickey sippy cup with a bendy straw and snow globe bottom, I set to work. Proudly presenting my creation to my son, he took one look at it and threw it on the floor (temper tantrums are par for the course right now). Smoothie covered my carpet and the bean bag chair. Amazing. Mommy was now cranky. Mommy was losing her patience. When Mommy gets irritable, the rate at which Mommy refers to herself in the 3rd person increases at an exponential rate. At a total loss, I called in the clean-up crew. My dog made quick work of the mess and after scrubbing everything down with a wet cloth, I was satisfied. My MIL asked me if I was concerned about the carpet being sticky and should get out a carpet cleaner. Deciding the smoothie residue would blend nicely with the spit-up already covering most of the floor, I decided no. Gathering up my smoothie-covered rags in one hand a few stray pieces of ice in the other, I made for the kitchen. Before I got there, the doorbell rang. I managed to get the door open, but was unsure of how to accept what my visitor was offering, having no free hands. So I threw the ice over her shoulder into our yard. I’m telling you all of this, so should you come to our door and find ice being thrown at your head, you may have some understanding of the potential situation. You should still feel free to turn and run in terror. I would.