After I won points all around with my dinner solution (see previous post), and consequently got out of cooking for the night, I decided to chill for a bit at the table with the latest Ballard Designs catalog. It had just come in the mail, and I couldn't wait to take a peek. Let's face it, this is the REAL mommy porn of today (sorry, Shades of Grey). All of those beautiful pics of beautiful things beautifully arranged for just the perfect shot...just to make you take one look and scream YESSSS!
After just a few pages, I was already picturing all of those different patterns, colors, furniture arrangements, accessories in my own home...sigh. It was lovely and dreamlike and had it's own soundtrack and everything. Suddenly, I was awakened from this dreamlike state of furniture fantasy with all of the same violence as a slap to the face: I heard the word "poop"...followed by "on-the-floor" being yelled from the play room. Mayday! Mayday!...MAY FUCKING DAY!
And it WAS on the floor, and on the stage, and on some of the dress-up clothes (Goodbye, cowboy hat. You will be forever missed.) Houston, we have a problem. I was but moments before sitting at the table and allowing my eyes to feast on some of the best in home décor, and now I was on my hands and knees scrubbing feces out of the room with determination, my senses being fully assaulted. Such is my life. Such is motherhood.
Somehow, my poor little Ethan had sprung a leak in his pull-up and had left a trail of poo from stage left to exit door. A full on poo-splosion. He was taken to the bathroom to be stripped down and bathed (again). The sounds of my husband gagging, the sounds of my youngest splashing (happier than a pig in...well you know), the stench of defeat--and defecation-- took the earlier shuffle-with-a funky-twist right out of our night, and just left us with FUNKY.
Gag reflexes calmed and youngest boy bathed, we felt we were finally in for some relaxation before bedtime stories and teeth brushing called us for duty again (ha!), until we looked down into the draining tub to see Ethan leaning forward with mouth open. Cue the extreme close up. "DON'T DRINK THE WATER!!!" we both yelled simultaneously, which was enough to startle him still. No worries, all was saved. We looked at the clock, feeling exhausted. Only 7:30? Shit. No, really. Shit--right there on my wrist. Exasperated sigh. Fade to black.