Hi, how was your day?

Warning: This post contains descriptions of bodily fluids (and none of them are the ‘exciting ones.’)

As a SAHM (Stay At Home Mom) my days are pretty routine and boring. Mostly I just keep the boys entertained and do all the things I’d like to pay someone else for, but am just too tightwad to ever really give that any thought. I spend a lot of my time on alert, waiting for Sir Thousand Hands to find a new way to try and off himself. Thankfully, as he gets older the monkey inside finds less destructive ways to be entertained.

Then there are days, like yesterday, where my day can go from relatively peaceful to craptastic (Thanks Ivy) in less than ten hellish minutes. The baby was fussy, not for any apparent reason, but if he wasn’t in my arms he had to be wiggling around on our bed, or else. I haven’t quite figured out what it is about your own infant’s screech of rage, but no other sound, in my experience, is quite as capable as climbing inside your spine and tightening every nerve in your body until it is just singing with tension. I swear, that sound could be marketed for use by hostage negotiators, it is an instant blinding headache. So, that being noted, we were on the bed, surrounded by a pillow barricade, that the wigglebutt really just laughs at.

Sometimes, all it takes to start an exhausting chain reaction of events is a simple, “Mama?! Go poop!” You see, STH is completely potty trained. Yes, I’m very proud of him. Anyhow, a case of diarrhea took him a little off guard, but together we still made it to the toilet before any major damage was done. I put Mark on the floor and the screech of rage began, as did the headache. I did the ever popular toilet swish of STH’s underwear in the other bathroom, scrubbed my hands, and put the baby back on the bed, where he began to channel a whirling dervish. STH is potty trained, but very impatient. I have yet to figure out how to make it absolutely clear that you finish before dismounting.

So, let’s set the scene shall we? Baby Mark is whirling around on the bed and my nerves are sizzling. I’m attempting to monitor STH’s progress by where he is in Hop on Pop. Mark makes a play for the edge and I pull him back to the middle. In the split second it takes to perform that manuever, STH calls out “All done, Mama!” and I hear his feet hit the floor. I run in and of course, he had not been completely done before he slid off the toilet booster thingy. I will sum it up with, “ICK.” STH assumes the position (down dog, for you yoga fanatics); it is not pretty. A quick glance ensures that Mark is still safe, in the middle of the bed.

Toilet paper isn’t going to be even close to effective, in this clean up. Of course, the wipes are in the other bathroom, because STH likes to vary his routine and I keep forgetting to stock up. Praying STH holds his pose, I begin to head to the other bathroom, when I hear the sound that every dog owner knows and fears.

“Vlu-urp. . . VLU-urp”

“Noooooo!” I scream as I head toward the sound and my sixty-six pound basset hound. “Not on the carpet!” He has come into the only carpeted room on this floor. I begin trying to push him off the carpet, in time. Vomiting dogs must be like sleeping children, the inertia seems to triple their body mass. Through serious gymnastics and peril at ignoring the two children, I do manage to get him to the deck before he erupts. As an aside to Wallace, why do you think you need to eat the weeds? I really am trying to clean up the yard, I don’t need your help, they are not a doggy buffet, and you are not a cow.

I dash back into my room, where Mark is making a play for the edge. STH is walking on all fours around the bathroom, dirty butt in the air. I make another play for the wipes. As my hands are certainly not even close to sanitary, Mark decides it’s time to not be content and to let me know, in no uncertain terms.

I try to reason with him as I clean up STH. “You woke up cranky, Mark, I fed you ten minutes ago. Yes, you did burp, and I changed you, just after that. I’ve played with you all day. It’s your own fault you’re crabby.” Meanwhile, STH, who has never seen Spiderman as anything other than a character on his underwear cries about how he pooped on Spiderman and Mark refuses to be comforted by my words and returns to the edge of the bed, contemplating his certain demise.

As quickly as possible, the bathroom is sanitized, STH is dressed in clean Spiderman underwear, and Mark is rescued from the edge of the bed. I console Mark and he erupts in tremendous yawns. The little traitor was ready for a nap. It seems his sole purpose in waking up from the previous one was to be a part of the madness. They are already conspiring against me, aren’t they?

In the evening, when my husband comes home, he’ll inevitably ask, “How was your day?”
“Fine. Yours?”