DH: "Slartibartfast, I need some help!"
Me: (coming into the kitchen) "What's up?"
DH: "Bittybartfast is rebelling against the containment regime."
*I round the kitchen island to see Bittybartfast (age 19 months) sitting on the floor in her BRAND NEW I-JUST-PUT-THEM-ON-HER-FIVE-MINUTES-AGO clean clothes, with an adult-sized bowl of baked beans and a toddler spoon in front of her, absolutely covered in baked beans. (As is the floor, and one side of the kitchen island.)
Me: "Why did you give her a bowl of baked beans?"
DH: "We were sharing it. It was going pretty well until she stuck her hand in it."
Me: "Why didn't you put a bib on her?"
DH: *long pause* "Oh."
Me: "This is entirely on your head." *goes back to eHell to post this*
So yeah, probably shouldn't laugh, but now DH is trying to catch a very slimy, sticky Bittybartfast, who has figured out there's some sort of chasing game going on, and he's going to have to completely strip her down and probably at least stick her clothes in the sink to soak as well. And I feel absolutely zero need to step in . . .
(ETA: turns out DH's version of "clean up the mess" is to let the dogs in. I'm hoping he removes Bittybartfast from the area first, or she's going to be a very unhappy baby . . .)