Sorry, Thumper…No Lifegaurd on Duty

I couldn’t sleep last night.  At all.  My husband travels for work, and he happened to be out of town, so I spent the night by myself, drinking wine, watching shows he would never watch with me, and looking forward to getting into my nice comfy bed…all by myself.  Don’t get me wrong.  I love my husband, and I enjoy having him around, but he’s a giant man, and he takes up a lot of space, and he practically sleeps on top of me.  Every night.  And I’m claustrophobic.

I went to bed around 12:30 am after watching lots of trash TV.  I totally caught up on the happenings of those classy ladies of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and their stripper poles.  So clearly, I felt enlightened and enriched as I slipped into the nice cool sheets.  As I lay there, eyes covered by my sleep mask, I heard something.  I sat up in my bed and listened closer.  Then I remembered something my husband said as he left town, last Friday.  Almost a week ago.  “Hey, keep your eye on the water level of the pool, and make sure you clean out the skimmer baskets every day.”   To which I said, “Duh.  Of course.”  And he said, “You really have to do it this time.  Seriously.”  And I said, “Ok.  Whatever.  Got it.  Go.”  Or something like that.

As I lay in my bed, listening to the strange gurgling of my pool, I realized that it had been six days, and I had yet to even step foot into the backyard.  So I played every worst case scenario over and over in my head, tossing and turning, and not sleeping.  At all.

Fast forward to this morning.  Before I dropped my son off at school, I stepped into the backyard to take inventory of the task at hand.  Pool level, lower than I’ve ever seen it.  Leaves everywhere.  Strange consistent gurgling sound.  I decided this would take some time, so I took son to school, turned on Doc McStuffins for my daughter, and headed out to “fix” the pool.  First things first…I started the water.  Already, I felt better.  Second, clean skimmer baskets.  I lifted the lid to the first basket, and looked into a sea of leaves.  I reached in, pulled out a handful of soggy leaves, and threw them into the trash.  Then I pulled out the skimmer basket, emptied it, and set it back in its little watery home.  Nice.  I’m taking care of business.  Husband will never know I’m a slacker.   Feeling much more confident, I reached into the second skimmer, also full of limp wet leaves, so full that I couldn’t get to the handle of the basket to pull it out of the water.  So I shoved my hand in further.  I stretched my fingers, reached in and grabbed a huge cluster of ice cold leaves.  Hmmm.  Why are these leaves so heavy?  I thought to myself, but I was in a hurry, so I just squeezed my hand around the leaves and pulled them out further.  Then I felt it.  Fur.  An animal.  A cold furry dead animal.  In my hand.  My bare hand.

I dropped the dead animal and leaves back into the skimmer basket and squealed like a little girl, jumping up and down, in total complete freak out.  My first instinct was to run inside and wash my hands, so I sprinted, full speed to the back door, and turned the handle.  Locked.  Come on!  I banged on the door, hoping my three year old would tear herself away from her fictional doctor cartoon to let me in.  Nope.

This has happened before.  My daughter likes to lock the bottom lock, the one that tricks you when you turn it and it lets you go outside completely ignorant of what’s to come when you try to go back inside.  Thank God for good neighbors.  Crisis averted.  Back in the comfort of my kitchen, I washed my hands for twenty minutes calculating my next move.  I still had a dead rabbit and a bunch of leaves in my pool, which might have been the cause of the strange gurgling sound, so clearly, I had to get them out if for no other reason, I need my sleep.

My rubber gloves were somewhere in a landfill, having been thrown away last time my husband left and I had to fish a dead animal out of the pool, so gloves were not an option.  I cursed myself for forgetting to buy some replacements, but who would have thought I’d be fishing dead animals out of my pool so frequently? I had to come up with a plan.

What would MacGyver do?

I grabbed a wire hanger, twisted it into a hook, and stepped back out to the watery morgue in my backyard, feeling brave and not at all freaked out.  Right.  I hooked my hanger pully thing around the rabbit, and pulled him out.  I tried not to look.  I held it, hooked to the hanger, with my arm stretched out as far as it would go, squealing with every step, and threw it into the field behind my house.  And then I sent my husband an explicit text message that we needed a bunny lifeguard because I’m over fishing dead animals out of my pool.  He responded with this:  When was the last time you checked the skimmers?  Really?  Pfft.

Why is it that the “sh*t hits the fan” when the husband leaves town?  If it’s not a dead animal in the pool, the water heater explodes, the kid needs stitches, the  roof leaks, and every single time there’s a tornado, I’m here by myself with the kids.  I can handle tornadoes, roof leaks, exploding water heaters, and even ER visits for stitches, but I cannot be the undertaker for these foolish animals that can’t swim.

Rabbits  - they're smart.

Rabbits – they’re smart.

Does this happen to anyone else?  What’s the worst thing that’s happened while the husband or wife were away?

Sex Dreams and Shit Prints

He brushes a curl out of his eye then leans down and kisses me, soft but sensual, sending electric bolts of desire through every inch of my body.  Stubble tickles my chin.  He pushes me to the bed, and I feel his weight on top of me.  We kiss again.  This time, hard and hungry. I wrap my fingers around his curly locks and pull him closer, arching my back.  Our faces are so close that our noses touch.  My eyes meet his.  Green with need, asking, begging.  I nod my consent.

He leans in a little more, takes a long, slow breath and says, “Mom.”


“Mom,” he says again in my six year old son’s voice.


No. No. No. No. No!!!!

“Mom.”  I close my eyes, envisioning him again to no avail.


My blurry eyes try to make out the time.  I think it says 5:24…AM.

“What is it, baby?” I ask the dream sex interrupter.

“Have you seen the helmet that goes to my police officer?”

I want to scream, “Are you effing kidding me?  You just interrupted my sex dream with Adrian Grenier for a Lego, a tiny little centimeter sized helmet???” But he’s six, and I haven’t explained sex dreams and their importance to him, and his world revolves around Legos.

“Buddy,” I say as sweetly as my 5:24 awake self can, “It’s still night time,” because the 5 o’clock hour is still night time in this house, “Go back to bed.  Don’t turn on the lights, and don’t play with your Legos.”

“But mom..”

“No ‘but mom’.  GO!!”

I roll over, put my hand under my pillow, close my eyes, and summon the picture of my celebrity crush back to my mind.  I start to float in the softness of a sleep cloud willing the sex dream to reoccur when….BANG!  My bedroom door flies open and slams into the wall.

“Mommy.  Mommy.  Wah wah wah!!!” In nails on a chalkboard whine.

“What is it, baby?” I ask my 2 year old daughter while looking at the blurry clock again.  5:39.  Awesome.

“I’m all wet.” Oh dear God.  Please tell me this isn’t something involving a bodily function.

I reach out in the dark and pat her down.  Dry.  “You’re not wet, baby,” I say to her softly trying to keep her drama at bay.

“No, mommy, yook.  I’m all wet.  Yook.  See?”  She shoves her arm in my face.  I feel a trace of dampness on her sleeve.  Not even slightly wet.

“You’ll dry.  Come on.  Let’s get you back in bed.”  I sigh, hesitant to leave the warmth of my bed and sleepily walk up the stairs holding her hand.

We get to the top of the stairs when it hits me.

“What’s that smell,” I ask, already knowing the answer.   Then I feel it, cold and wet on the bottom of my bare foot.

I scream explicits in my head and tip toe to turn on the light avoiding getting anymore of what’s on my foot on the carpet.  The light confirms my suspicions illuminating a trail of child sized shit prints from my daughter’s room to the bathroom.

I take a deep breath, a deep cleansing breath.
I will not freak out. I will not freak out. I will not freak out.

I lift my foot into the bathroom sink and begin to scrub the shit off of it. “What happened here?” I ask my big blue eyed daughter who seems completely unhinged by the amount of shit everywhere.

“I pooped.”  Like it’s not all over the floor.

“How did it get all over the floor, baby?”  It’s not even 6:00 am.  I’m never getting back to the sex dream.

“I took my pull-up off.”  Ohmigod.  Ohmigod.  Ohmigod.  Deep breaths.  Picture a happy place.  There he is again.  He’s so so pretty, that Adrian.

I quickly assess the damage.  Said shitty pull-up sits in the middle of the floor taunting me, laughing at me, begging me to take it and toss it across the house, but I don’t have time because I still have a stream of shit prints to clean, and now with the lights on, a three year old who needs a bath.  Desperately.

I toss the child in the bathtub, filling the water with heavily scented baby wash. I run downstairs and throw on some pants, grab two towels and the carpet cleaner, and run back upstairs.  Daughter is happily singing “Let it Go” from Frozen in the bathtub.  I clean up the shit prints with a wet towel first.  Then I grab the carpet cleaner, and start to spray the prints.  “Foof,” says the empty bottle of carpet cleaner as I spray again and again.  I turn it upside down and try it that way.  “Foof,” it says again as nothing comes out.  I’m pretty sure, it’s laughing at me. I shake it.  “Foof.”

Dammit!!!!  Of all the times to run out of carpet cleaner.

By this time, the six year old is no longer pretending to be asleep in his room with the light on.  He comes out to see what’s going on, so I send him down to the laundry room to get my stain remover.  I mean, I have shit prints here, and no carpet cleaner.  I gotta do something.  He brings it to me.  I spray all of the prints, scrub the shit out of them…literally…soak the entire area in Gain scented Febreze , scrub my hands for 14 minutes, and then get my daughter out of her bath.

And we haven’t even had breakfast.

I coax my children to the kitchen, take out the Cheerios, and pour them each a bowl.  They’re happily arguing with each from across the table, so I sneak to my bathroom to brush my teeth and put on my uniform: yoga pants, sports bra, and tank top.  I make it back into the kitchen just in time to see my daughter reach up to the counter to grab the box of cereal with her slippery little hands.  Crash.  Cheerios everywhere.

Le’ sigh!

I scoop a handful from the floor and put them in her bowl. (Don’t judge.) As I’m getting the broom out to sweep up the remaining honey oats, my husband enters the room, completely oblivious to my morning struggle.  He stretches and yawns, letting out a huge groan (like he’s spent the last thirty minutes cleaning up shit prints).  Then he looks at me and says, “Can I have some coffee?”

“Get your own mother @#^&&%#@ @#^@ @#%^&* @#$$@@ ^#@#^ coffee!!!” I reply…calmly.

He looks at me like, what?  Then says, “What’s your problem?”

I answer under my breath…You’re not Adrian Grenier.

tired mom

Can I go back to bed? Please?