the Very Terrible Thing

"I'll just turn in early," I told myself, 2 and a half hours before I turned in. The lure of the "second day" is just too much, with its relatively uninterrupted reading and eating food in its entirety, instead of breaking it into 5 pieces and handing it around to people who smell funny and talk really, really loud. So last night was no exception, with the ceremonial slooooow eating of chocolate and reading of substandard fiction.

This morning, they woke, as they always do, exactly 2 hours before I want to be alive. Today Tristan appeared in my room in the buff, au naturel, in his birthday suit, if you catch my drift. "Well," I thought. "He probably won't pee." and then I pulled him up to sleep between us. Moments later Toby came in gagging and falling over because Tristan had left a poopy diaper in his room. So. Time to wake up, I thought.

How I feel.

So I started the VBS prep process, which includes finding so many clothes for so many people. "You should do it the night before!" says you, Susy Helpful, "and also, you should eat wheatgrass!" I won't give you any suggestions in reply, Susy Helpful, because I am walking out my salvation in fear and trembling. Matching clothes, I think. Or at least complementary. Clean. Clean clothes, that mostly fit and don't have any noticeable stains. Man, I think. They're gonna give my kids vouchers for the food pantry or something. "Eat your cereal," I say 1000 times, but no one does because it has almonds and there's mutiny afoot. "Put on your shoes," I say 15,000 times, as Tristan, wearing only a diaper, runs frantic tracks around the house pushing a baby stroller. "Put on your shoes," I say, 12,000 more times, when suddenly I am accosted by a Very Terrible Smell.

An investigation is launched, in which I try to track down the inevitable feces while everyone else screams and gags and does not put on their shoes. Because I clearly have lived a wicked life, I found the offending substance, with my bare foot. And then I learned the Very Terrible Truth. Somehow, and it can only be by demons and devils, fecal matter had left a diaper and landed on the floor. And then, a small pink stroller had driven through it. Over and over and over. In a circle, through the entire downstairs. Over and over again.

"Well," maybe you're saying, "What would Jesus do?" and I'm warning you, Susy. You are on thin ice. Whatever it is Jesus would have done, I did not do that. There was some praying, but it was mostly focused on pleasegoddon'tletmepukepleasegod. The man of God, given the screeching options of wash-the-house or take-kids-to-church, made a quick exit with 2 of my children, who I really hope are wearing pants.

 I'll tell you one thing. That stroller is gone. I washed the humans. I mopped the floor 4 times. I scrubbed and vacuumed the rug. I threw away washcloths and diapers and the mop head and then I put the trash bag out of the house. Bottle of Febreze: empty. Hands, scrubbed raw. But I am not washing that stroller. It is dead to me. 

If anyone is looking for me today, I will be in my big chair in the corner, rocking and humming.