...Or, Ever have one of those evenings when it seems like the world is exploding around you?
(Warning: This post contains references to various bodily fluids in a somewhat graphic manner. Read at your own risk)
It started simple enough. Daddy was at the scout meeting with David. The other kids were playing pretty well with each other. Then I made the move to get them all ready for bed. Big mistake.
Mama: "Peter, time to use the potty so you can take your shower."
Peter: "But I'm bizzy."
Mama: "Come on, Peter, time to get ready, now."
Stomp stomp stomp up the stairs.
Mama: "Mary, will you please get changed for bed?"
Mary: "Ugh, do I HAVE to?"
So far, everything's pretty normal. Peter is on the potty. And on the potty. And still on the potty. Singing, I think. Suddenly,
Peter (yelling from upstairs): "Mommy, I'M DUH-UN! Come wipe my butt!"
Mama (yelling from downstairs): "Peter, you're almost 5, you know how to wipe your bottom!"
Peter (still yelling): "Somebody has to wipe my butt, else I'll get poop on my hands!"
Mama, sighing, carries the baby upstairs and as she sits her down in her crib, a gallon of vomit spews out of Emma's mouth, onto the crib and all over Emma's nightgown.
Mama: "Are you ok, baby?!"
Peter: "Come wipe my butt, before it gets sore!"
Mama: "Peter, wipe your own butt, I can't do it!"
Mama picks up the baby, putting her on the dresser (the changing area) to get her cleaned up, and...she throws up again, this time it's all over the dresser and the wall.
Mama: "Oh my gosh, baby, what's wrong?!"
Peter: "I'm done! Come give me my shower!"
Mama: "Peter, no shower tonight. Go get your clothes on, now!"
Mama picks up the baby and...yep, you guessed it, now it's all over the floor and Mama's pants. Mama sprints to the phone, speed dials Daddy's cell.
Mama: "Come home, NOW!"
Daddy does not ask what is wrong, he knows that tone. Mama has never called him and asked him to come home right away, EVER!
Daddy: "I'll be right there."
Peter: "Come give me my shower!"
Mama: "Peter, put your clothes on big boy!"
It was precisely at this moment that Mama entered the bathroom and found Peter standing in the tub, buck naked and the bathroom window wide open. I fully expect to find a blow by blow description of my evening in the local paper next week.
Mama (shutting the window): "Peter, into your room right now and get dressed!"
Peter: "I can't, somebody has to help meeee."
Mama (undressed the baby and herself): "You are a big boy, go do it yourself!"
It's at this point that Mama is actually thankful that there are always sundry relatively clean clothes piled up on the shelves in the bathroom. Sometimes it pays to be bad about putting things away.
And Daddy arrives.
Daddy is Mama's hero. He cleans up all the bodily fluids, wipes everything down with vinegar and water and changes the crib sheet while Mama bathes the baby.
Emma is smiling, giggling and getting everything. Apparently she ate something that didn't agree with her (or drank some warm milk that curdled in her tummy), because this is not a sick baby.
Peter is disappointed but gets over not having a shower.
Daddy always make everything better, you know (wink).