For now, I have to vent. Besides, how many people actually read my blog???
Sunday night is always chaos. It seems the weekend flew by and now all the prep for the week has to happen in an hour and 42 minutes.
Last night was no exception.
I was already half way into the dinner making ordeal—salmon (which Haddie hates), rice (which better be not too wet not too dry) and homemade bicuits (which EVERYONE wants to help with) when Maisy announces: lets call Grandma and Grandpa to come over.
Sure I say. Partly because I love Chris’ parents partly because I feel myself getting revved up and maybe if they are here, I will settle down and be better behaved.
Quickly, I throw two more salmon filets into the marinade, set two more places and finally pop the cap off of an icy beer. It’s Sunday and I have a lot to do so I pour half into a glass and give Chris the rest. We clink to our surviving another week.
That’s when it all goes down hill.
Dinner is fine despite slightly overcooked salmon, which naturally Haddie refuses to eat. I start to clean up when all of us in the kitchen hear a little voice from somwhere far away calling: Maaaaaamaaaaa. Maaaaaaaamaaaa.
It is not the “Mama” of “Mama, I love you. You are brilliant and beautiful.” It is the unmistakeable “Mama” of “Mama, I went poopoo.”
Where is she?
Finally we track the tiny voice to the bathroom in the basement–why would she be down there? I ask myself as I trudge down the steps still adorned with my favorite purple dishwashing gloves. In our house, our kids are like animals when it comes to their craps. If they go to a different spot, guaranteed something is askew.
In the bathroom, my pretty girl sits on the toilet, feet dangling in mid air. She looks forlorn.
“What’s up babe? Did ya go poop?” I am not accusing just questioning. Big eyes look back at me with a silent nod followed by a whisper “It’s diarrhea.” (don’t ask me why my 5 year old knows this word, I blame nights of on-call with her dad)
“Oh. It’s ok I sigh.” As I unwind mountain after mountain of toilet paper to wipe the tar off of her little ass, my nose senses there is more to this story.
Besides being bent in half to reach all of the nooks and crannys, I am also wedged next to the waste can. My eyes involuntarily wander over to find a blue solo cup filled with what looks like dry mud.
Oh. No. Please. No.
“Honey,” I say casually. “What’s in the cup?” No words necessary.
Now I AM accusing–full on assault. “WHAT. DID. YOU. DO??”
It turns out that there was an urgency to this evacuation: one that precluded her lifting the lid of the toilet before sitting on it and the rest is ….well you know.
I strip her clothes and shoo her upstairs with instructions to get into her shower without passing go. As I scrub, disinfect and curse, I hear giggles from Chris and his parents as she races past them to her bathroom naked as a jaybird.
40 minutes later, I finally make it to her room. I stop for a second to remove my “dishwashing-turned-poop-cleaning” rubber gloves and toss them in the trash.
In that whole night’s events, something about tossing my favorite, best fitting, most protective rubber gloves makes me want to cry.