Most mornings in our house are rough; clothing drama, school worries, repetitive and intense line of questioning about the dinner menu for the next 9 days. That’s all on a normal day, but Mondays? Mondays are BAAAD. Coming off the high of the weekend, knowing an entire week of school looms ahead. Rewind a few weeks ago to one of the shittiest Mondays we’ve had in a long time…literally.
I am not a morning person. Those who know me best know that I dream of the moment that my head hits the pillow each night before it’s even been lifted from its resting place each morning. I’ve been perpetually tired since the age of 16 and the time I share with my bed and pillow is more sacred than anything I do with my rat children (kidding, not kidding).
That morning, I was lying in bed willing the alarm to give me a few more coveted minutes when I heard my son’s voice from the hallway. I assumed it was the typical Monday mania about to start. I HATE SCHOOL, WHERE ARE MY GREEN UNDIES, NOT THE BLUE ONES THE GREEN ONES. DID YOU WASH THEM? WHY CAN’T YOU JUST DO YOUR JOB! No, I would have welcomed that on that particular morning. Instead, I heard…”OHHHH! OHHHHHHH!! WHAT IS THAT? WHAT DID I JUST STEP IN? POOOOOOOP! IT’S POOP. OH GOD DAMMIT I STEPPED IN DOG POOP!!!!”
At this point, my eyelids fly open, the covers are literally thrown off my bed and I’m running to the hall before my feet hit the floor. My husband hears the ruckus from downstairs where he was prepping breakfast and we meet each other on scene of the crime. Our son was 3 steps from the top of the CARPETED stairs, balancing on one foot, with dog shit all smooshed between his toes. Yes, at some point in the middle of the night, our 60 pound German Shepherd puppy had managed to drop a full sized load on the stairs. I naturally start yelling at my husband because it’s his dog, and therefore his fault.
Meanwhile, our 2 daughters come running out of their room to assess the chaos. My middle daughter, upon reaching the stairs, starts to yell and gag. “OH MY GOD (gag) IS THAT POOP? DID SABRE POOP (gag)? OH GOD AND HE STEPPED IN IT (gag, gag, gag)? She is quickly followed by my youngest who chased her older sister out of the room, but who never made it past the hallway mirror. That child is physically incapable of passing a mirror without an extensive 1 on 1 session. So instead of yelling or gagging, she was flipping her hair around and checking out her reflection over her shoulder while adding unnecessary commentary to the situation. “Ew. Sabre pooped (hair flip). Why would she do that (half turn to the bathroom with sharp head turn back towards the mirror)? I wonder if she’s sick (hip jut)?
At this point I want to tell everyone to STFU but instead I bark orders at my husband to clean up the pile as I swept my 50 pound son up like a baby and carried him into the bathroom. I had one request. ONE: “Bud, just do NOT put your foot down. Please just balance for one second while I turn on the tub water.” As I am bent over to start the tub, he starts screaming in my ear: “WHAT A DUMB DOG, WHY DID SHE DO THAT? SHE’S A BAD GIRL.” All the while, he proceeded to put his foot down, not once, but FOUR TIMES. Bathroom floor, shit print. Bath mat, shit print. Towel hanging on tub rim, shit print. Tub ledge, shit print. At that point, I nearly chipped a tooth as I screamed GODDAMMIT through gritted teeth.
I get his crap-laden foot into the tub and began to go to work cleaning it off. Of course there is more profanity and screaming in my ear that is conveniently placed right next to his angry mouth. “WHY WOULD SHE DO THAT!?! SHE’S SUCH A BAD DOG! WHO POOPS ON THE STAIRS? (Valid)
“Bud, what if her belly hurts, do I scream in your face when you wake up puking in the middle of the night?” “OH, yeah. I guess. Sorry Mom. IT’S IN MY TOES, GET IT, RIGHT THERE OH IT’S IN BETWEEN MY TOES!”
After a few more minutes of his tirade, he is cleaned up and off to get dressed like none of it happened. I then turn my attention to collecting the massive amounts of bathroom linen he managed to toe-paint in the 10 seconds it took for me to run the water. I return to the hall to find my older daughter still battling the gags as she watched the cleanup efforts in horror – “GO GET DRESSED!” Then I glare at my husband “Did you get it all? There could be small pieces – make sure you get it all! What the hell is the matter with that dog? Honestly, in what scenario could she have placed a perfectly sized SHIT on the stairs – ON THE GD STAIRS?!” Then my youngest, whom I forgot was still having a pajama fashion show in the mirror, chimes in: “you better get the flashlight and make sure you didn’t miss a spot, Dad.” “YES – GO GET THE FLASHLIGHT!”
A few more harrowing minutes later, we were all on with our day. Stairs scoured clean, bathroom wiped down, and linens in the washing machine doused in bleach all by 7:15 am. Did I handle that situation with calmness and grace? ABSOLUTELY NOT. Was I regretting my actions and choice of words amidst the shit storm? Maybe. Was I already dreaming about the glorious moment later that night when my head would be reunited with my pillow? You’re damn right! 15 hours and counting…