Yesterday, Cian said, “I have to go baf-room,” and before I had a chance to get over my shock (pride!), he came back out with a look of sheer guilt on his face. “Mom. Can you clean my poop?” His pants were still on. So, clean up we did. Major, major clean up. I should skip over the part where he struggled with me as I took off his pants, which made little chunks of poo rain around us onto the carpet like chocolate-covered balls of stink-infested hail, so I won’t share that. But I will tell you that as I got him dressed again, he looked at the floor in horror and pointed.
“Mom! Dere’s more poop!”
“No, there’s not, Cian,” I told him, and continued to tug at his pants.
“No. MOM. Right dere. Dere’s POOP.” And lo and behold, he’d discovered a little chunk that had gotten smooshed in between my pant leg and the carpet. So, yay. Good day.
Today, I overslept by, oh, 45 minutes, and had to rush the girls through their cereal (granola, bought from Wegman’s, chocolate), tell them they were buying their lunches, and throw some cheddar mix and a couple of berries into a container for their snacks. I made both girls cry, almost forgot to change Cian out of his urine-scented pajamas, and whipped through the drive-through at Starbucks after drop-off (at which the girls were tardy, and I avoided saying hi to the principal, because have you ever seen the way I look at morning drop-off?) because I felt like being the stereotypical suburban minivan-driving, yoga pants-wearing female that I am and bought a cappucino (grande, whole milk, and with a gift card, thank you) because our dishwasher broke last week (yes, it’s a newish house. No, we are not thrilled about it) and I was over washing out that French press we got to be economical. First world problems for the win, y’all. (Or fail. Mainly fail.)
(You can tell that David’s been in Atlanta for work, yes? He comes home in an hour. Not that I’m counting.)
Also, today, I chased the stupid dog around the yards of all of our neighbors again after she snuck out of the house before I could put on her leash. I’m sorry to call her stupid, but if you’ve ever spent a half hour shouting, “Riley! Riley! Riley!” into the wind while your stupid dog races through the neighbors’ landscapes, terrorizing cats and pooping on lawns and eating whatever she finds that looks good while you flail about making an ass out of yourself and hoping that one of the neighbors isn’t one of those people who uses the HOA guidelines as his Bible (“I called the police because your DOG is running LOOSE, ma’am! That goes against regulations!”), I really think “stupid” would be one of the milder words you’d use. At this point, I was late to pick up the girls from school and praying Cian stayed in his car seat (nope, hadn’t buckled him in yet, either) so I called the secretaries at school to ask that they keep the girls in the office while the stupid dog (I did call her an “idiot dog” on the phone with the secretary, so at least there’s that) slipped out of her collar and sprayed spit all over me as she raced by again. And since we were late to school, we were then late to Saoirse’s guitar lesson, where I had to explain to her teacher that no, we haven’t practiced much this week, and yes, we need to work on “Ode to Joy,” and excuse me while I return a text instead of paying attention to “Twinkle, Twinkle” because my brother wants to know why I’m just now trying to plan that family vacation I said I would do four months ago (why is the mid-generation mother always the cruise director in any extended family, by the way? Who the hell thinks that we’re the organized ones?).
That was today. And after I stuffed the kids back into the car and wrangled the dog (yes, she came with us, because…I don’t know why. Because I didn’t trust her not to chew her way out of the crate, that’s why) and wiped up the drool, we drove home (“Mom? What’s for dinner?” “I don’t know, honey. I have to finish putting away this dishes I washed earlier and tidy up, then I’ll figure it out.” Real answer: Pizza Hut). And because the day had turned lovely, I told the kids that, yes they could play outside before homework and dinner. And that part was lovely. The children were happy and laughing, and I sat. I caught up on messages. I gave myself a pep talk to get up and clean the kitchen and wash out the fridge like I’d planned to do, and maybe cook that Curtis Stone recipe I’d wanted to make last week. But then I heard, “Mom! Cian stepped in poop.” And that’s when my dream died.
I won’t tell you about the poop that’s smeared from the bottom of our driveway up to the garage. I won’t tell you about Cian’s new sneakers, now drying outside of our house, the crap spread all over them like some neater toddler’s watercolors (I don’t know if it’ll ever wash out. I do know that I’ll be scraping those shoes tomorrow before I figure out if they can be salvaged. Don’t cry for me, Argentina). I won’t tell you that I had to wash the muck out of his pants. And his socks. And his hands. And my hands. I won’t tell you that I’ll be dreaming of turds tonight, floating through my mind like deranged sheep over some godforsaken fence.
I’m not going to tell you any of that. Because it’s the end of this day. In a couple of hours, it’ll be a new day. In 53 minutes, David will be home. The entire home may smell like a sewage treatment plan, and the house may look like I ran off to the circus where I belong and let the kids fend for themselves, but that’s just now. That’s not tomorrow.
Just a little bit longer. I can do this. And tomorrow? Tomorrow I will cook dinner for my family and my shoeless toddler, and I will patiently wait for the new dishwasher to arrive (HALLELUJAH), and I will sell the dog. Wait, I shouldn’t have told you that last part, either. But never mind that. Tomorrow. Tomorrow will be better.