Apparently I only update this blog when something truly horrific or disgusting happens in my life.
Enough said, you've been fairly warned.(Disclaimer: While reading this post, should you feel a need to gag, wretch, or lose control of any bodily functions, you're absolutely on your own to clean that mess up. I take no responsibility for your business.)
Today I woke up late.
That was my first mistake.
I had twenty minutes to push my oldest off to junior high, move my next two boys through their morning teeth-brushing and hair combing routine, and drag a decent outfit (minimal stains, mildly wrinkled) on my sleepy girl's body. Then after pulling her hair into something less worthy of a homeless person and whipping up breakfast (an oatmeal packet), I cleaned last night's mascara off my face and dressed in exercise garb. After dropping the boys off at school, because I moonlight as a taxi service, I had ten minutes to rush to the gym where I teach a step aerobics class. (And no, step didn't die in the 90s.)
I was making good time! So I decided, hey why not live a little and go to the bathroom? (Yes, yes I did just take the story there.)
"Henry," I called down the stairs. "It's your turn to watch the dogs. Make sure to take Britta out if she barks. I'm gonna run to the bathroom real quick. Ok?"
Mistake #2. How silly of me to think I could go to the bathroom and all hell wouldn't break loose. Just as I relaxed into my business (Yes again, yes I did just go there.), Britta, my cute, cute, cute--gotta keep reminding myself she's cute--four month old goldendoodle, barked. And barked. And barked. And whined.
"Henry! Take out the dog." I'm a pretty good yeller from the bathroom when the situation calls for it.
More barking. A shuffle or two. Then--
"Momma, Britta pooped in the house. A lot."
A lot? What does a lot entail? I was up, hands washed, and down the stairs in record time.
By the door, Britta dropped four piles of steaming, stinky poop. My three uber-helpful kids stared at the stench scene screaming about how disgusting it was.
Like I didn't know.
"Don't just stand there, you need to clean it up," I told Henry as I rushed for cleansing supplies.
"Because you were the one watching her and she barked and whined to go out. What were you doing?"
"Uh," he glanced away. "I was walking around."
"Walking around? Is that code for playing?" I asked. I didn't pop him outta my lady parts yesterday and I'm keen on his evasive maneuvers.
He nodded and so, his chore began. Armed with paper towels and a bag, he started cleaning up the doggie doodoo.
Mistake #3. Kid+Pooptastrophe = Worst. Day. Of. My. Life.
2.5 piles later Henry heaved and heaved and then puked on the poop, and then making a bee-line for the door to finish vomiting, he walked right though the mess like Moses parting the poop sea. Except there was no parting. Only lots and lots of squishing under his shoe.
Right then I wanted to run screaming down the road, but I hunkered down, and cleaned the poop-puke fiasco, scrubbing the floor and base boards and walls (because my kids excel in projectile purging). At that point the boys were 20 minutes late to school, and I had minutes to get to the gym. I grabbed my purse and rushed the kids to the van, and turned the key . . .
And when the van revved once and then died, and the clock on the dash glared 9:22 am, I knew two things: I wasn't going to make it on time for work, and I should've just stayed in bed today.
I hope your day isn't nearly as craptastic as mine!