I slept in this morning. I don’t mean, like, for an extra hour. I mean like, for 20 extra minutes because I somehow set my alarm wrong. Just long enough to throw my day off a bit, so I threw on some clothes and rushed around frantically, trying to pull a few things together before the house woke up. This is what I now call my ME time. I know, it’s sad.
Anyhow … while hastily applying a layer of mascara, the dog started to pace the hallways in distress, making horrid retching sounds. This is a fairly familiar occurrence around here lately, poor old chump. He stopped just outside our daughter’s bedroom door, hurling up a disgusting pile of bile and something else unrecognizable.
The giant belch woke both kids up instantly. Our daughter, who is four, is HYPER aware of everything.
“Mama, is Moosie okay?”
We’ve been prepping our little ones for Moose’s departure to dog heaven any day now, starting over a year ago. That he is still able to choose a spot to vomit is beyond to me….
“He’ll be fine sweetie. He just has a little tummy ache,” I say, running with a roll of paper towel in one hand and some bleach cleaner in the other. Our son has now sprung out of his bed with that electric morning energy that only 2 year olds have. I grab him just before he slip-slides through the bright yellow goo.
“Eewwwwwwwww, yucky!” he squeals in his best cartoon voice.
“Yes, yes, it’s really, really yucky,” I say.
“Jetty help?” he asks, already trying to grab the spray bottle out of my hand. He love, LOVES to spray things. Especially spider webs and his sister.
“Well, Mommy doesn’t really like that idea. Why don’t you go play with trains in the living room?” I suggest.
“Alright!” He cheers with enthusiasm. Thankfully he is still easily re-directed.
I nearly throw up cleaning it up.
The dog, who is now sixteen, has breath that I swear would make an undertaker pass out. I never used to be like that you know. Physically grossed out by bad sights and smells, but I am now. I got sick at PlayLand on the merry-go-round. The slowest, lamest child’s merry-go-round ever. Sadly, I think my Hellevator days are officially over.
By now Angella is up and wants help getting dressed. This takes at least 15 minutes of careful deliberation as she is now four. Hello. Finally she emerges, in a purple Care Bears shirt, aqua skirt and pink flower socks.
I then hear a sound – click, clack, click … like plastic dropping on ceramic tile.
My mommy radar zoom, zoom, zooms fully into this frequency as I do not recognize this sound. Captain Monkey Pants is up to something. I just know it.
Like cleaning up old dog barf isn’t enough punishment for past sins…. I try to think positive.
When I catch Jett, he throws the lipstick as far as he can – like he’s been caught with an illegal weapon. He is covered head to toe in translucent face powder and has charcoal eyes like a bandit. He has also done a make up masterpiece on the dining room table.
Ah yes. I left out my make up bag. I feel powerless. Ha, who am I kidding – I am powerless. This realization makes me laugh. Thank goodness my sense of humour is still intact.
I catch the surly little pirate and strip him in the tub. There is no other option. Mr. Picasso Paws sweetly declares that he was indeed framed by his giant stuffed crocodile. Ever since Peter Pan, the crocodile has been accountable for a myriad transgressions. I’m not buying it but he is acutely aware he has been quite successful in charming the pants off me. I scrub his adorable pink cheeks. Ah, boys will be boys….
Speaking of which, I’m a bit miffed that Daddy is obliviously sleeping through this whole ordeal.
When I return to the scene of the crime to inspect the damage I see that Jett has annihilated a couple hundred dollars worth of cosmetics. Oh well, I wasn’t going anywhere special today. I grab the bleach cleaner and paper towel, my old standbys.
As all mothers know, there is a fine line between innocent exploration and mass destruction. I can’t even get mad. I guess I’ve made some progress as a human after all.
Suddenly, I realize I have a total of 25 minutes to feed them both breakfast, get Angella to choose her Show and Tell, pack a snack, make two more phone calls and get her to school on time. I can do this. I do this.
How I transformed from a shallow, self absorbed, designer clothes-clad rock diva into a bleach spray wielding, minivan driving super hero is beyond me. But it’s good … really good.
Not to mention funny.