My peripheral vision caught movement as my daughter gasped.
“MOM, one of them is coming!”
I looked up at her and spoke in a hushed tone. “Car salesmen are approaching us like walkers from the Walking Dead.”
I know it is a business but I really would love to just buy a car without having to haggle for the right price.
I gaped in awe at the fattest turd I have ever seen. Who even did that?? Their poor butt hole, I can’t even fathom how that thing exited the sphincter.
The blob sat at the edge of the hole in the bottom, threatening to plug it up. My eyes were bulging in amazement. I double-gloved my right hand and prepared to snatch that atrocity out of the toilet bowl with a strong plastic bag.
My hand posied above the bowl, I flushed the toilet to make the water level drop and let me have a go at grabbing the poop. Quick as a flash, it swooshed into the hole and visibly clogged it.
I readied the plunger. Floop, floop, floop. Nothing. Flush. Floop, floop, floop.
Still nothing. Floop.
Eons later, I admitted defeat. My pinky was burning. I took off the gloves and discoveres a blister. A stinkin’ toilet plunger pinky blister.
Oyiee. That sucker hurts.
My kids immediately began complaining about hunger pains the second I emerged from the bathroom. Fine. I santized and fought to open a can of refried beans. My hand slipped and sliced pieces of skin from my knuckles.
Bloody beans, anyone?
So, yeah. It isn’t even complicated.
I sneezed. And sneezed again.
There went my tinkle. In my pants.
Not a lot. But who wants pee driblets in your undies or on your pants? Sorry guys, I don’t shake it off. Doesn’t work like that.
The side effects of having babies. Argh!
My legs quivered as I suspended myself above the toilet bowl. No touching the seat! Just a careful pee session.
Then it happened. Gas slipped out.
Why. Do. I. Have. This. Problem.
I wiped myself and went through the motions of zipping, buttoning, adjusting and flushing. All that time passed and the putrid fart odor remained trapped in the stall.
The door swooshed open to announce the arrival of two co-workers. I stood exposed at the sink, obviously the only culprit.
One of them entered my stinky stall.
My stomach flipped. There was only one thing I could do.
Relief rushed through my body as a steady stream escaped my nether region. As my bum hovered precariously over the toilet, I heard the door swing open. Footsteps clicked and clacked until the very next stall door snapped into place.
What? Seriously? A billion open stalls in the empty bathroom and someone goes right next to me??
I scowled at the heels shuffling nearby on the floor. I held my breath and grimaced while squeezing my butt cheeks tight. Please please don’t fart. Why, oh why did I drink that cup of milk. Lactose intolerance is a real thing!
It might be someone from my departmemt. Heat scorched my cheeks and I felt a sweat break out. I finished peeing and patted myself quickly.
Panic set in as I worried about whatever accidentally slipped out earlier or worse – smell whatever odor they unleash from pulling down their pants.
Omg. Does my pee smell like coffee?? I tripped in my attempt to flush with my foot, fly out of the stall and wash my hands before the intruder could see who I am. Run!
I tore at the paper towel dispenser and bolted out the door just as I heard the stall lock slide.
Aaaaaaaand she’s SAFE!
That’s how they say it in baseball, right?
It is midnight. I am pacing around the house, trying to stay awake while I wait for these eggs to boil.
My kid needs to bring in 2 boiled eggs to dye at school tomorrow. But I forgot to do it earlier, of course! I forced myself to roll out of bed as soon as I realized I was about to epically fail again.
So, here I am. Pacing around. Pausing to stare at these eggs in a pot. Basically feeling like a zombie trying to impersonate a human.
Igghhhhhhj aaaaggahahaha I am exhausted!
My mom-van finally glistened in the growing darkness. I dropped the dirty blue cloth into my washing supplies and put one hand on my hip with pride. Evening is the only time I am free long enough to clean my vehicle.
My brother pulled up in the driveway at that exact moment. He gave me the usual cursory glance and informed me that I should be doing waterless car washes.
This was my moment to shine. “I just did!” I called out to make sure he heard my accomplishment.
His only reaction was a side glance as he walked into the house.
I huffed to myself. “Pfffft. Whatever.”
He came back out a few minutes later and mumbled, “What are you using, anyway?”
Pushing the bottle into his hand, I took a step back and watched him read it carefully.
“This isn’t a waterless car wash,” he stated grimly. “It’s a detail spray. What you use after your car is clean.”
A look of horror froze onto my face. No way. No no no. I snatched the bottle from him and stared at the words written plainly across the top: “Spray Detail.”
Oh. My. Goodness. Can I please just crawl into the heap of unfolded laundry on my bed and go to sleep? You know what? I still don’t even understand Spray Detail. What I DO know is that I let my kids starve so I could detail my dirty mom-van. All for nothing. Pffffft.
My kids like home lunch. I’m not very good at including a desirable variety of items. It’s not usually a surprise to them about what I might include.
I was caught off guard when my brother noisily searched the remains of my kindergartener’s lunch bag and asked me what the red thing was. He likes to tease me about the “junk lunch” I provide, so I wasn’t paying very much attention… until my daughter asked, “Mom, what’s this red thing?”
My head jerked up and I looked for the alleged red thing. I have no idea what it could be. My brother held up a ziplock bag full of what appeared to be red salsa. But I never ever give my kids salsa. What the heck was that?
I reached for the bag and sniffed at the contents from the outside of the ziplock bag. I nearly retched all over the floor from the horrid odor.
The mystery bag was quickly thrown into the trash as I puzzled over the contents.
Ah hah. I switch out the lunch bags periodically to match the backpack. Sometimes I just can’t find the lunch bag so I use a new one. I apparently neglected to empty the bottom compartment of this particular lunch bag for weeks. The original items in the ziplock bag were tiny wheels of cheese covered in red wax. They must have melted over time.
I felt so badly for my child having brought out the Red Food bag at lunch time, wondering if she had to eat that gross thing in front of her friends. Sometimes, I am absolutely mortified at my horrible mothering skills.
I gathered dishes and food from the table and walked toward the kitchen. As I passed my mom, a thought occured to me. “Mom, are gonna eat this?”
She took a few steps forward to inspect what I offered. The baby bowl tipped forward and we watched the lone plump strawberry fall to the ground.
My mom spoke slowly, her eyes glued to the strawberry’s new location. I guess because she is a mom, she had to state the obvious. “No, I am not gonna eat that.”
“Yeah. Okay.” It is just that kind of day.
I simply cannot remember. Did I poop yesterday? Or am I constipated? Umm. I was really busy. Every time I had to go, I remember getting interrupted. I think. Or not. Wouldn’t I be extra gassy?
The short path from the kitchen to the bathroom was an endless loop of obstacles. “MOM! She was looking at me!” Or “My neck is dry. I need water. I need water. Mommy. I need water, Mommy!” What was that blob on the wall? A booger? No one confesses.
Midnight arrived. Kids were in bed. Home lunches prepared, kitchen and living room cleaned, paperwork completed and I took advantage of showering with hot water. (Who likes to shower after water hogs?) Brushed my teeth, quickly decided against worrying about tomorrow’s outfit, and sank into bed.
Shit. I forgot to poop.