No, really. Figuratively AND literally, it was a shitty morning at my house today. It began with my stupid decision to sleep for just ten more minutes. See, we have one family vehicle, (long story, it just works for us right now.) so Truman and I take Mike to work in the morning, come home, cuddle and snooze for a half hour or so and then get up and get ourselves ready for the day. Today, I thought, “I’ll still have plenty of time to get ready if I just sleep a teeny tiny bit longer.” and recklessly set my alarm for ten minutes later than usual. Truman played in his port-a-crib and ate cheerios like a little angel while I dozed. My alarm went off, I jumped up, put my pants in the dryer, hopped in the shower, got my hair fixed and teeth brushed and noticed my stomach felt kind of queasy. I took a few deep breaths and decided I’d better poop. I really did not have time for this, and HATE pooping after I take a shower and am all ready, but I also can’t do the deed in public, so I had to go now. I tried to hurry, washed my hands and went to the kitchen to grab Truman’s banana and a bottle of water for myself, realizing that now there was no time for me to make myself a smoothie. I would have to grab McDonald’s on the way. (Listen, I’m not proud of it, it just happens to be my dirty little secret. I love McDonald’s breakfast when I’m pregnant. Yes, I realize that it is probably the WORST time to indulge in McDonald’s but I can’t help it sometimes, ok?) I go to the half wall between our living and dining room to grab my purse and see… cat poop. Oh yes, cat poop right there on my couch.
Zorro, my fourteen year old cat is a bit of an asshole. If his litter box is slightly dirtier than he likes he will poop somewhere else. Generally, on the furniture. I am blaming my husband who is in charge of cat litter since I’m pregnant and it is forbidden for pregnant ladies to change the box. I said a few words that weren’t very nice, but decided that I absolutely could not leave cat poop on the couch until Mike was able to clean it up. Praying that I wouldn’t become infected with toxoplasmosis, I cleaned up the cat poop. I cursed at the cat as I passed him in the hall on the way to the bathroom to wash my hands. I had my purse on my shoulder and because my brain was frazzled (and I was consumed with thoughts of toxoplasmosis) I used that hand to turn the faucet on. My purse slipped down my arm and right into the sink, directly under the running water. I threw my purse on the counter and finished washing my hands, attempted to dry off my purse, swore a little more, and then heard Truman. He was mid grunt when I ran into the bedroom to see his poop face, plain as day.
“Truman, do you have to poop?” I asked him as I grabbed him and carried him into the bathroom.
“Poop! Poop!” He said enthusiastically.
“Did you already go?” I asked as I fumbled with his pants and diaper.
And he had. I put him on the potty to finish and went to grab a new diaper. After battling to blindly wipe his butt since he was more interested in squatting an inch off of the floor and cleaning the tile with a wipey, than standing still and letting me see what I was doing, I finally had him clean and he was ready to be diapered and dressed. I of course, was now sweating and breathing like I just ran a marathon. I diapered him quickly, washed my hands and returned to find him in the middle of the bed, ready for a fun game of “Chase Me Around The Bed Until You’re Ready To Cry.” Thankfully, he came right over to me when I told him to. He must have seen the wild look in my eyes and decided that it was not the best time to play around. I got him dressed and explained that Mommy needed him to listen carefully and go right to the door when we were done. He nodded solemnly and I thought that this might actually work. Honest, rational conversation stressing the importance of listening and obedience, what could go wrong? I was already proud of him. I just knew he was going to walk right to the door and stand there patiently waiting for me. I set him on his feet and he took off. In the opposite direction of where I needed him to go. I retrieved my pants from the dryer (Oh yeah, up until now I had been running around in my underwear and shirt.) and threw them on, ignoring the fact that they were still damp in the pockets and somehow my shirt now had a big wet spot on the front. I yelled for Truman the entire time I grabbed our stuff, as he darted from room to room, laughing and ignoring me completely. I shoved my feet into my shoes, grabbed the keys and said, “I’m leaving!” Truman came around the corner and stopped in the hallway. He stared me down. I felt my eye twitch.
“Let’s go Truman.”
“Let’s go! Come on, I’ll hold your hand.”
“Ok that’s it, I’m going to carry you.”
“NO! NO! NO!”
I picked him up, now carrying his bag, my bag, my wet purse and a flailing toddler to the car. He made it much easier for me by thrashing wildly and kicking. It is not easy to walk while trying to shield your gigantic belly from swinging big-boy shoes. He was finally buckled up and ready to roll, I hoisted myself into the drivers seat, careful to not rip the ass out of my pants and briefly contemplated calling in to work. I glanced at the clock to see that it was now 7:50. I start work at 8:00. I said a few swear words and headed to daycare. I dropped him off at 7:58 and threw caution to the wind. I went to McDonald’s. Not the most responsible decision, but I need to eat! I have nothing at work to snack on and unless someone brought in breakfast (which only happens once a week or so) it would be four hours until I was able to eat something. Getting fired was less frightening. I made it into work at 8:15. I couldn’t help but think, had I gotten my ass out of bed when I was supposed to, I probably would’ve been right on time or only a few minutes late. Of course, had I not dealt with three separate poop ordeals, I could have slept in AND been on time. Oh well. Sometimes, shit happens.