The Return of the Evil Twin

You may remember Amelia's foray into Aboriginal body art. And the tattoo fetish before that. We got smart and removed all art supplies from her room, as odd as it felt to "childproof" long after we thought she'd proven to be a logical, compliant, rule-following kid. Well, imagine our surprise Saturday night as we lounged in our new bedroom (the living room couch, while Oliver the 6.5 month old enjoys the palatial master bedroom...more on that later) at 10:30pm and were interrupted by loud, insistent knocking. I instinctively glanced at the front door - but no, it was coming from the direction of Amelia's room. Knock knock knock. KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. I opened the door to her room to find this:

The large globs and general greasy sheen you see? Vaseline. More specifically, a family-size tub that we've been using to deal with Oliver's eczema. (Side note: amusing that the allergy specialist we waited 2+ months to see recommended the product that's 34 cents an ounce rather than the $6/oz cream we've been using to date) This Vaseline has lived innocently on the changing table in "her" room for the past week, along with the diapers, wipes, and various other baby care essentials. Apparently the baby care essentials must also now live in the dining room, along with the disgraced art supplies.

Amelia explained that her skin was dry (where have we heard this before?) and that she needed to moisturize just like Oliver does. This does not, you'll agree, explain her wall:

Nor does it explain her now greasy friends (the stuffed animals who sleep with her, all of whom appear ready to take part in some sordid pit wrestling competition).

From a discipline perspective, Mary and I agree wholeheartedly that it doesn't help that I burst out laughing when I saw her initially. I was shocked! I tried to defend myself by pointing out to Mary that I also burst out laughing when I first heard Amelia's heartbeat on an ultrasound back in our younger, innocent days. It wasn't funny - I was just feeling such a strong emotion. In this case, the emotion may have been horror but was more likely shock. Oh, and secretly (don't tell Mary) a bit of admiration for her spunk. Amelia was immediately stripped and tossed in the shower. She had replaced her jammies over her fully-greased body - removing them was quite unpleasant. Her hair still looks greasy, despite two washings, and all of her bedding is in various states of recovery.

She will now somberly agree that one should only moisturize during the day (under parental supervision) and that one should never use "too much."

So now we face the problem: how to remake her room in the image of a solitary confinement cell when we have no "playroom" or other space to put all her stuff? Would she then fall asleep in less than 2 destructive hours, or would she just spend the time hatching up intricate plans? Is there an obvious solution here that we're missing?