“I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. Delicious Ambiguity.”Gilda Radner

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Hey, Mom, There's Something In the Bathroom...

Today was a day that a blog entry formed itself before my very eyes, before my very eyes even wanted to open.

Today is Air Duct Day in our house, which means we (I) hired a company to come and suck out all the dirt, guck, dust, and germs from all the airways in our house.  Every year Joey and Noah get colds that don't go away and aren't really contagious to anyone, and this was one of the things recommended to help that (and we know the REST of my house is clean, don't we).

But this meant that men would be showing up at my house at 8:00.  I take Joey to school just before that, so I was feel a bit harried.  I couldn't get Joey to school too early, but I also couldn't NOT be here when the Duct Men arrived.

That's not all.  Joe is away for work again today, and the Duct Men required a lot of prerequisite work.  Man's Work: moving furniture out of the way.  I had to do all that, too.  I meant to do it last night, but Glee was on and then I was so awfully tired....

Being awfully tired meant that I skipped my night shower and had to take one this morning, plus move the furniture, plus all the regular stuff (making breakfast, cleaning up the kitchen after breakfast, and dressing the boys for school which is like trying to put clothes on two jellyfish, I swear).

Being awfully tired was an awfully big mistake.

Of course I overslept.

Then Noah took twenty years to eat four French Toast Sticks.  And dripped sticky Mrs. Butterworth's every which everywhere.  He said, "Mommy, I just don't want to eat anymore.  My tummy hurts."

"Can you eat a cookie?"


"Then eat your French Toast Sticks."

"But my tummy hurts."  Ugh!  You need to understand, Noah is a Master Manipulator.  One day, to help me out while I was sick, my mom came over to help me put the boys to bed.  Bedtime is a no-nonsense routine that takes fifteen minutes.  Period.  Bath, jammies, teeth, story, GOOD NIGHT.  No frills.  No lingering, lovey conversations.  Imagine my surprise when I finished up with Joey and saw Noah's light was still on.  Imagine my surprise when I opened his door and found MY MOTHER, the QUEEN of No Nonsense (the one person in the world I would have pegged as impossible to manipulate), lying in Noah's bed beside him, giggling and snuggling.  "I'll finish up," I said.  When I went downstairs, she greeted me with, "You weren't kidding about him.  He REALLY thought he was going to manipulate me."  I said, "Mom.  He totally did."

So this morning, I said, "Eat the French Toast Sticks."

Next I ran through the house moving the furniture (3 couches, 1 console table, 1 baker's rack, 1 nightstand, 1 giant globe, and 2 dressers; not that any of things actually BLOCK vents, because I have a complex about that, but they were infringing on the required four square feet of space near all vents).

At this point I was sweating and it was 7:20.  The boys were in the playroom.  I poked my head and said in the Serious Voice Reserved For Serious Moments, like serial killers invading our home, "Mommy's taking a shower.  Do NOT fight and do NOT leave this room."  Both boys nodded, well, seriously, and said, "Yes, Mommy."

I tried to take the World's Fastest Shower, but it made no difference.  As I stepped out, Joey was screaming.  "MOMMY!  MOMMY!  NOAH POOPED HIS PANTS AND IT'S ON THE FLOOR!!"

Noah was already yelling, "I'm sorry!  I'm so, so sorry!" as I raced through the house leaving footprinty puddles and clutching my stupid towel.  I was about to curse the world and cry out, "WHYYYYYY?" when I realized exactly why.  All the pieces fell into place.

Noah tried to tell me his tummy hurt.  I told Noah, in My Serious Voice, to NOT leave the playroom.

It was kind of (totally) my fault that he had his first accident since being potty trained.

But then I had to clean him.  Clean the poop.  Remove all traces of poop from the carpet (SHOUT! it out!).  Disinfect the carpet.  Disinfect Noah.  Disinfect me.  Get dressed.  Put on makeup (because the people of Joey's school REALLY care what I look like).  Dress the boys.  Hide the laundry.  Put their coats on (WHY do they become unhelpful snails when it's time to put on coats?  They WANT to go out...).

On the way to school, we hit every light.  I got trapped behind a bus and a minivan.  Don't even get me STARTED on minivans.  Pulled into school, there was some jerk blocking the driveway.  Drop Joey off, watch him mosey at .2 mile per hour into the school, stopping twice to readjust his backpack.  Fly home.

When the Duct Men arrived?  I opened the door calmly.  I smiled.   I said, "Come in, come in."   The picture of Normal.

Yeah, right.

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