This morning has been an exercise in futility. Not to be confused with fertility. We are d-o-n-e exercising our fertility. Surprisingly, though, I'm not really feeling frazzled or out of control. I did take a couple of deep breaths, but mostly, just, I don't know. I just didn't freak out. And that's really good.
Lately, my morning routine consists of puttering around the house getting rid of strange odors. Our three littles produce so many odors. After the usual taking out of diapers and running the laundry downstairs I could still smell something unpleasant. It was unmistakably poop. Yes, it's another one of THOSE stories. I kept sniffing the baby, sure that he was the culprit, but he innocent. Zane was following me around the house, as he does, so I asked him if maybe he was gassy. Nope. Still the smell persisted.
I sat down on the couch next to Lachlan, who was playing on his iPad and Zane sat next to me. That's when I saw it. His underwear was wet. It was only a couple seconds before I confirmed that he was the culprit of the unsavory smell. Traces of which were now on my couch cushion. He jumped up, took off his soiled undergarments and sat on his potty. Now there was poop all over the potty and my couch cushion. I set to work wiping off Zane, the potty, and the couch.
That's when Reese toddled over to me and started throwing up. And throwing up. And throwing up. I stripped the baby, cleaned the mess and put BOTH kids in the tub. Then something occurred to me. If Zane had peed in his underwear, and underwear doesn't contain pee, then there was a puddle of pee somewhere in my house. "Zane", I squeaked out with a patient smile forced onto my face. "Where did you go pee?" All I got was a blank stare. I tried again with "where were you when you peed in your underwear?" His face lit up with understanding. "On your shoes." "Oh", I screeched out about an octave higher than before. "Okay". I quickly washed and dried the boys, put the baby in a diaper, and ran to my closet.
There are a couple silver linings in this situation. First, my closet floor is hardwood. Second, since Zane had cleared a place to stand in there, he had only COMPLETELY SATURATED one shoe. Fortunately, the paper towel and bleach spray were just a room away next to where the baby heaved out the contents of his stomach. I gathered them up and headed into my bedroom to wipe up the mess, then to the bathroom to wash my shoe. At this point I was feeling good. Good is relative, folks. The kids were entertaining themselves for a bit, which would allow me time to get the covers off the couch cushions and throw them in the washer. Done and done.
Ahh. Sweet relief. Lachlan and Zane were quietly playing downstairs so I sat the baby on my lap and started writing this post. Reese felt kind of feverish, so he just snuggled while I typed and enjoyed the silence and cleanliness of my house.
Zane came upstairs once and asked for some Pringles and Gatorade. Why not, I thought. I put some purple Gatorade in a sippy and sent him back down with the whole can of chips. Usually I would have rationed out a few chips and kept the can upstairs, but I was clearly not thinking. Next, Lachlan came upstairs asking if he could have a drink too, so I sent him back down to his room with what was left in the bottle of Gatorade and a promise that he wouldn't spill it.
After a little more typing, Reese started to get restless, so I thought it would be a good time to let him play downstairs in the toy room while I checked on the boys. I entered Lachlan's room to see my two eldest children sitting on the bed stark naked, watching a movie on the iPad. The comforter was a battle scene of crumbled chips and spilled Gatorade. "What are you guys doing naked?" I asked. Lachlan sort of hung his head and said, "the Gatorade spilled". Then I spied the overturned Pringles can wedged between the bed and the wall. As I suspected, my obviously conscientious kiddos had not put the lid on. About half a cans worth of chips was dumped out onto the floor.
Deeeep breeeaaatth. Surprisingly, Lach hopped off the bed and asked what he could do to help so I had him bring the vaccuum to the top of the steps while I stripped the bed. I carried the vaccuum down and let him unravel the cord and plug it in. Then, while I got to work vacuuming, he hauled the bedding into the laundry room. Maybe I'm the only one here, but I find vacuuming up big messes to be oddly satisfying. Just aim and the mess is gone!
I was just thinking about how good it felt that even though all I was doing that morning was putting out metaphorical fires, at least I was staying on top of that. That's when I caught Lachlan hauling a bucket of lawn clippings down the stairs.
"What are you doing with those?" I asked incredulously.
"Making a fire." He must have seen my eyes widen and added, "a pretend one", before I could lose it.
Continuing to keep my calm, I asked, "so where is this 'pretend' fire"?
He led me over to a small, wooden, play kitchen that we have. It's tiny little oven was filled with grass clippings.
"You know what, boys? This looks like fun, but why don't we move the fun out to the back porch and you can pick all the grass clippings you'd like."
That's exactly when my mom got there and I left to got to an appointment. Oh, who am I kidding. Therapy. I went to therapy.
UPDATE: Tonight while pulling my garbage cans out to the street I was pelted by a pee-filled water balloon thrown from a random car. The balloon exploded on my bare feet and splashed up my legs. I looked up just in time to see the tail lights of a red sports car speeding away. It seemed an appropriate close to this day. A sort of sickening ceremonious washing of the feet.