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I push the tall-legged hard thing next to the water thing, and pick up the blue thing.
It’s sticky, and sudsy, and fun.   I pour it all on the dishrag on the counter, over the carefully washed bottles, over shiny hard things, and some soft squishy yellow things. Bubbles are coming off the counters now, and they are pretty. 
WHAT ARE YOU DOING?  Uh-oh.  I jump down and the chase is on.  Nona is old. She probably can’t catch me.  I lead her up stairs, and dive into a pile of laundry, where she does not find me until I laugh.
Being twenty-two months, means I am muscular, strong-willed, fast, and determined to make at least five more messes before Nona forces me into the room full of pillows, and we both pretend I’m going to close my eyes.
In the time it takes Nona to put these pieces of cloth back into the clothesbasket, I have wormed my way out from under her legs, and I’m poking Mommy’s make up out of their little metal tins.
Nona glares at me when she discovers this, wraps all the make up in a plastic sack, and tosses it into the garbage.  I know Mommy would be angry about this, if she knew, but I don’t have words yet. And I doubt Nona is going to tell how she’s failing as a volunteer.
By the time Nona catches up with me, I have slid down the stairs on my bottom, dumped the Monopoly game on my way through the living room, and smacked my three-year-old brother with an orange plastic bat.  Together in temporary solidarity, we are both now smashing marshmallows and Lucky Charms into a big plate of sticky gooey brown stuff we found on the counter.  It is cold, and squishy, and the Lucky Charms look funny in it.
Uh-oh. Here comes Nona. She’s on the phone now, saying something about her meatloaf.  
In a red minute my brother and I are behind the couch, crouched low, hiding.
This drives her crazy when she lets it.  
That stupid giggle gives us away, and we get dragged out.
We can’t go to bed yet!
Who will teach Nona how to open every child-proof lid and lock she’s put around this messy house?
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