I know it’s Thursday.
But Monday happened, and I feel compelled to share this with you. It’s necessary for my psyche, for my sanity, and maybe so that when I end up on an episode of Snapped, you will all understand. You’ll say, “Oh, well she’s the girl who woke up to shit prints that morning when she was peacefully dreaming about sexing with Adrian Grenier.” And maybe you’ll riot outside of the courtroom with signs that say, “Set Mandi Free For Adrian” or not. Again, whatever. I’m not planning on murdering anybody. (There you go detective. It wasn’t premeditated.) I digress.
Monday I spent a lot of the day working on The SisterWives blog. You should read it if you aren’t already.
It’s summer. You may have noticed that I’m not around much. That’s because…children. They are home and hungry and bored and hungry and bored and…children, so needless to say, on Monday I pretty much ignored them. I know. Here’s my Mother of the Year award.
It was a good run.
While I was getting everything ready for this week for the other blog, my daughter was quietly playing in the play room. She does this a lot. She has a vivid imagination and plays really well by herself (and not just because I ignore her
a lot occasionally.) See. I’m a good parent. Shut up.
I’m at my desk when she walks up to me. I immediately notice that she has blue and red markings all over her legs. Her arms. Her face. I look at my desk and quickly inventory that my red and blue sharpie markers are missing.
“What’s that on your legs, babe?” I asked my little
demon child angel.
“Mom, I drew you a picture.” The duh was inferred.
“On your legs?”
“No, on paper.”
“On paper where?”
“On the couch.”
I take three cleansing breaths and follow her into the playroom where she shows me the picture she drew. There are two dots on it. One red. One blue. I look at the couch where the two dotted white piece of paper sits. I pick it up. Sure enough, sharpie marks on my nice leather couch, the one that’s way too nice for a playroom, that’s way too good for the abuse the children throw at it.
Thank God for Google. I mostly get the marks cleaned up. I turn on Doc McStuffins and go back to my computer, silently thanking Doc for taking care of my kid while I continue my very important task of the day.
I realize at one point that my dog is out of food and that I have forgotten to buy the salmon I’m planning to cook for dinner, so I load both kids in the car, and we hit the store, purchase the salmon, the dog food, some dog shampoo, and a bundle of asparagus. My grocery list seems unimportant. Stay tuned.
I’m in the kitchen getting the marinade ready for the salmon when my daughter comes in and asks, “Mom, can we give Lucy (the dog) a bath?”
“Not right now, baby. We’ll bathe her tomorrow.”
She disappears. I marinate.
Twenty or so minutes later, she comes back into the kitchen. I notice she’s holding the dog shampoo that I stupidly left out on the kitchen counter. I also notice it is no longer full. In fact, it’s pretty much empty.
“Darling, what did you do?”
I reach over and take the shampoo from her hand. It’s wet and sticky and clearly used.
“I gave Lucy a bath.” Like it’s no big deal. Like she isn’t three years old. Like she just always gives the dog a bath without my supervision.
I register that for a minute. I wonder silently how she managed to get my 60+ pound redbone coonhound into the upstairs bathtub by herself because I know Lucy didn’t willingly jump into the bath tub. Then my rational brain checks in and says, “Where did you give her a bath….darling?” I grind my teeth and clinch my jaw and hold in the fire that is about to flair from my nostrils.
“Under bubba’s bed.” Oh dear Jeezus, and everything that is holy.
I check the burners, tell my daughter to stay away from the stove and wearily walk up the stairs to my son’s room.
I can smell the shampoo before I even make it to the top of the stairs. I inspect the damage. There’s an open bottle of detangler on the ground next to my dog, and the floor is saturated. Completely soaking with suds. Lots and lots of suds. It seems, in fact, that everything but the dog is wet. I add two plus two and realize that she has used the detangler bottle as her vehicle for water.
Lucy just looks at me like, “Really?”
We share a moment. I grab a towel and begin to soak in some of the suds. It’s a futile attempt. I throw a beach towel over the mess and head down to the kitchen to finish dinner. Turns out Google isn’t so helpful with dog shampoo and carpet solutions.
I’m running on fumes at this point. Exhausted, annoyed, and extremely hungry. We eat, which is immediately followed by bath time. For the kid. The dog is apparently all clean now.
I throw my little
sadist angel in the bath and stand there sleeping with my eyes open. About the time I approach day dream status, my husband comes into the bathroom. “Have you seen my flash drive that Jay gave me?” The one that’s in the shape of Marvin the mother effing Martian and looks like a toy to three year old people.
The one that has all of the files my husband needs for the meeting he’s leaving town for in the morning. I just point to my daughter and start crazy laughing. You know the laugh.
He looks at her and cocks his head to the side, the way he does me when he’s putting on the charm. “Baby, do you know where daddy’s Marvin the Martian is?”
She looks down.
“Baby girl, can you help me find him?” My husband’s patience really gets on my nerves. Not just in this incident, but always…for the record, or maybe off the record.
“Did you take it out of my office?” He continues, all sweet and wrapped around her little finger.
She looks up, her big blue eyes wide and full of…something. “I don’t know,” she says in her I’m your little angel, Daddy voice.
“You’re not in trouble…if you can help me find him, okay?”
“Okay,” she almost whispers. I just watch her play him from afar.
“So where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you take it out of my office?”
“Do you know where you put it?”
“I don’t remember.”
I jump in. “Listen, I don’t have time for this. Where is Marvin the Martian?” (The statement alone…shaking my head.)
I fold my arms and look down at her in the bath with my intimidating mommy death stare. You know the look. You’ve either given it or received it. Or both. And then I begin my inquisition. “Did you take it upstairs? Is it in your room? Is it in your playroom? Did you put it in your doll house? Your princess castle?”
“Oh, I know, mommy.” A little imaginary child sized light bulb brightens over her head. “It’s in my secret hideout.”
I don’t even want to admit this, but I do a little happy dance. I even clap. I know.
“Great,” I say, “And where is your secret hideout?” Nodding my head…not at all like I’m insane.
“I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
Are you kidding me with this kid?
I leave my husband with her in the bathroom and decide that it’s best if I get my seven year old son on the case. We turn the house upside down and find no martian. I give up, tell the husband it’s time to get the kids into bed and then proceed to lecture him on the importance of being more organized and not keeping flash drives that look like toys just out willy nilly on his desk.
The kids go to bed. I go into my husband’s office and sit down. We sit there for a minute, shaking our heads at each other. I say something like, “it’s a good thing she’s so fuggin cute,” while he shuffles stuff around on his desk. Then he picks up a drink koozie that his precious little gem made him in preschool. It has her hand print on it, and he keeps it on his desk…probably because he’s too lazy to put it where it goes, but he will tell you it’s because it reminds him of his princess. Pfft. Whatever.
He shakes the koozie.
Guess what’s inside.
Marvin the mother effing martian.
Eff you, Monday.
Anyone else have a rough Monday? Did you too blame it on the super moon? Or just your kid?