Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Hot mama.

Because I've been missing for the last five weeks, I'll share something that happened a little while ago. 

First, it's hot. It's so hot here. It's feels like Satan, himself, has been hugging and squeezing and wringing the entire city of Las Vegas for the last month and a half. The wind feels like it has just been blasted from a hair dryer. The inside of my car feels like the absolute center of the earth's core.  It's unlivable and it's making me crazy.

 That said, we've been spending our time in the pool, which has, thanks to it's surrounding convention oven-like atmosphere, been feeling a lot more like a sauna than a pool,  but is still the only appropriate way to make it through the summer here. Unless you want to coop up a four- and two- year old inside canned air conditioning all day, and in that case, I'd rather sit in a heated frying pan. Which is, as a matter of fact, exactly what it feels like outside. It's making us all bananas... foster. Bananas foster, you know, the dessert that's blasted with a blow torch at the end? Yeah, that's it. We're all irritable. Even our indigestion-prone dog has been taking out his frustration on me by throwing up more frequently. So that's nice.

Anyway, it was a sunny inside-of-a-toaster kind of an afternoon about a three weeks ago, and my kids were, of course, swimming for hours. They had spent the whole day dunking each other; my two year old, Landon, gulping big gulps of pool water in fairly regular intervals as a result. And as ehhhhveryone knows, this makes a little tummy like his a tumultuous war zone. I knew this. So when I attempted to distract my over-swimmed VERY newly potty trained son with a bowl heaping with loads of fresh, refreshing watermelon to defer the incessant sibling fighting, I should have known better. Looking back on my incredibly dumb decision, I wonder if I may have been suffering early onset heat stroke at the time I made that particular choice.
 
So, the kids are over it at this point. They want inside. They're tired and want to watch a show to unwind from the eighteen hours they just spent in the pool.

I take off Landon's swim trunks and lay them over a patio chair, because I know they'll dry in 3.4 seconds. My little boy is naked. He runs to our completely carpeted upstairs while I strip Avery of her wet bathing suit. And upon my entrance to the house, I hear a squeaky, scared, and definitely guilty, "oh no, mama, poooooop!!" from upstairs. 

This is where I stop and collect myself because I know what I've done to this kid and I know what's in store for me. I've pumped him, all day, with a double dose of toddler laxatives, and I'm about to pay for it dearly.

Then I'm off. I sprint upstairs, and right in the doorway of my daughter's room ( was that intentional, Landon?) is a pile of diarrhea like no one has ever seen before. It was almost like a cartoon; all the gruesome scene was missing was a couple of squiggly lines signifying a repulsive stench and a swarm of black flies hovering above. 

I grab the nearest roll of paper towels and a plastic bag. Nauseated, I line my hand with each towel, scoop up handfuls of the warm-to-the-touch mess, and plop them into the ill-fated bag until the bulk is removed.  I'm gagging. I'm spraying and scrubbing so much carpet cleaner into the carpet that the tips of my fingers are being eaten away by the harsh chemicals. I stand up to heave and gag one more time before I need to sprint downstairs to grab another roll of paper towels, then I depart. Profusely sweating, I reach the final step of our carpeted staircase, stomach turning, then,
SMACK! 

I've just forcefully immersed my entire bare foot into an enormous pile of my asshole dog's vomit. 

I stand there for a while. I look at my hands, fingernails stuffed with my son's feces, the insides of each toe coated in canine puke. I start to cry. I look up to the heavens and offer a VERY dramatic "whhyyyy?" (I do this a lot), then collected myself and limped and hopped to the sink to rid myself of my son's and dog's guts. 

After another hour of scrubbing and sanitizing and vacuuming while satisfying my kids' never-ending requests for Goldfish (NO MORE WATERMELON) and shows and drinks all while breaking up fights and offering countless hugs to soften hurt feelings, my husband returns home from work. I smile and say hi, purposely not hinting at the shit storm that just swept through his seemingly calm home. I make dinner, bathe the kids, check Instagram a billion times hoping to find that someone is having a worse day than I am at the moment (#sorrynotsorry #everyonedoesit), pour myself a taaaall glass of vodka, then bathe, prepare, and all but drop-kick the kids to bed, wash and put away the dishes, wipe down the stove and counter tops, finish the laundry, don't update my blog, then go.. the fuck... to bed.

Being a stay-at-home mom is such a blessing blah blah blah but sometimes it's really fucking hard and never-ending, and no one knows, no matter how many vaguely panicked Facebook statuses she's posting, just how insane things can get behind closed doors for any particular mom. Because maybe her kid bites or hits uncontrollably or has tantrums til he's 9 or never sleeps or maybe half the house is emptying their insides all over the floor and mommy is elbow deep in unthinkable putridness, but she doesn't want to seem ungrateful (you don't have to "go to work", remember? Be thankful!) or unput-together or incapable in front of her spouse, children, friends, or the world so she chooses to smile instead. 
 
Aaaaand that's why moms are the best.

We've got a long stressful hotttttttttttt summer still ahead of us, but I guess I could take the pressure off a bit by passing up the fresh fruit aisle at the store for a couple more months for a start. Might be a good idea.

On another note, it really is amazing how much shit you go through when your kids are little.
 
 Literally.