In retrospect, it’s all because I washed the area rugs. There’s nothing the Fates hate more than seeing clean area rugs in my home. Of course, having two cats and a dog doesn’t help matters, either.
6:00 am, we are jolted awake by the dog SCREAMING in his kennel. The Man, kindly remembering I’ve been under the weather this week, assures me he’ll handle it, and leaves the sanctuary of our bedroom.
6:37 am, he returns, looking world weary. The dog has pooped in his kennel, and the Man has had to clean kennel, dog, etc. He goes back to bed.
6:45 am, I’m still lying there, debating getting up and hour and 1/2 earlier than necessary, and I decide I’ll get up to use the restroom and then make the decision. I slip on my crocs, step into the hallway, and WHOOSH! Slip in vomit. Good times! Half on the tile, half on the rug, and now, some on my shoe. I sit in the bathroom, cleaning my shoes (and thanking God that I always slip on crocs in the morning), before going back out to clean the floor and take the rug to the laundry room.
7am, I’m back in bed, and by 7:10, I’m unconscious. So is the man, and I guess we didn’t hear Small One on the monitor until the alarm went off.
7:40am, the alarm goes off, and the Man leaves the room.
7:50am, I hear a ruckus in the bathroom, and go to investigate. Small One is sitting on the toilet, whining that she doesn’t WANT to be on the potty any more. The Man is on his hands and knees, scrubbing at the area rug with a Clorox wipe. “I didn’t realize,” he says, “that she already had some poop in her Pull-Up when I picked her up. I guess I didn’t hear her calling us until I got up, and by then it was too late.”
I survey the situation. Apparently, extricating a 2 year old from a somewhat messy Pull-Up AND footy pajamas has proved too complicated a task for the Man. There is poop on the rug, on the cabinet, on the floor, and on the child’s feet. In addition, she’s continued her process on the toilet, and needs attention. I tell the Man to go get ready for work, I’ll handle it.
8am, I’m washing Small One’s hands in a clean bathroom, and thinking about the old military commercial and how I’ve cleaned more bodily substances before 8am than most people do all day, when I hear a yelp from the other end of the house.
”Ugh!” yells the Man, “Someone has stomach issues!”
”Vomit?” I ask, almost hopefully.
”Nope,” he answers, “wrong end. But it’s not solid. What should I do with the area rug?”
”THROW IT AWAY!!!” I call back. (Because…seriously.)
A little while later, in the kitchen, we’re pouring our coffee, when the Man remarks, “We lead a charmed life, don’t we?”
”Oh, what a beautiful moooooorrrrrniiing!” I sing, in reply. “Actually, I guess you and I just didn’t get the memo that it’s ’cover the house in disgusting substances’ day. Before you leave for work, can you please pee in the living room? I’ll wipe my nose on the drapes.”
He laughs, then says “I bought a plastic water bottle, but it leaks.”
I’ve moved into the laundry room by this time, so I respond with “Sorry, honey. I did a run of darks last night, but they’re still not dry.”
”We’re fascinating people,” the Man says, “and we tell good stories. It’s a wonder no one wants to do a reality show about our lives.”
Do you think these are the sorts of conversations Brad and Angelina have?