One night when I was focused on a pile of dirty dishes Friend H picked up a random book to read aloud, to keep the children quiet and to ease my labor. The book was one of the Mysterious Benedict Society series, which I have never read. It's a sort of wordy fantasy mystery story. The characters all have odd names, like Raynie Muldoon and Sticky Washington. The kids enjoyed the story and the dishes got done faster.
You talking 'bout me?
The other night while cleaning up Mr. J we got to joking around how dirty and plump he was, and how we should call him Sticky Fatboy, or Sticky Fussypants, like a character in the book. The name stuck, no pun intended.
Last night at dinner we had a rousing time discussing this and that, and about midway through Friend H looked at Sticky sitting next to her and said, is he choking? Sticky Fatboy had been feeding the long end of his bib clasp down the nearest hole available and hadn't realized this was the cause of his own purple face.
Sticky has also been trying to lock himself in the bathroom, among other things. Then I found him on a stool in the kitchen, sucking on a dishcloth. Not even a prison cell would be child-proof for this child. This morning Sticky was hanging out in the laundry room while I was making sandwiches in the kitchen, and he found a toy in there that almost gave Friend H a heart attack- a hatchet. Goodness knows what a sweet missionary family in Russia needs with a hatchet, but hopefully it was something other than what Sticky had in mind.