Today's Wednesday. On Wednesdays, I do my Wednesday chores, which, among the standard list of every-day household
But people, need I remind you who you're dealin' with here?
I have to take you back to earlier in the day to explain how this all came down though, so follow me back to 8:45 AM as I am clearing away the breakfast dishes and Bean is sitting in the dining room draween a pitcher fer Daddeee. I'm scraping ketchup and sausage off a lovely IKEA® plastic flower-plate, looking out the window of my kitchen sink, enjoying the lovely sunlight filtering through the leaves and thanking the Lord for the cooler weather that trundled in overnight, when Bean appears behind me and says, softly, and with much trepidation, Mama, I haffa go poo poo.
WELL SAINTS PRESERVE US! What a big girl, telling me that! Yay, Bean! Hurry to the potty now and go. Do you need help or do you want to do it all by yourself?
She doesn't budge. Her face has NOT registered the happy smile of pride she usually sports after getting the verbal high five from Mama. In fact, it looks SAD. Or... OH NO. Guilty.
You already went poo poo didn't you?
I retreat to the backside of the toddler to assess the damage.
Oh yes. The tell-tale poo-poo duck-butt. You've seen this one, right? The cute little rounded underpants-clad bummy cheeks completely obscured by a pointy little pocket of poo. Pleasant!
Now people? I am not a yeller. It is not my WAY. (My way is normally to get right into the child's face and talk very softly through my teeth as if I am throttling my desire to BITE HER, which I am not saying is better than yelling, but is generally quite effective in illiciting a quick return to appropriate behavior). But today, the poo poo duckbutt absolutely SET. ME. FREE. Because WE have been potty train
I ranted at that child, as I shucked off the duck-butt underpants and flipped out the offending clod with a resounding ker-thud-splash into the potty, as I threw the pink undies into the sink and turned on the hot water as HIGH as it would go, as I stormed to the laundry room to grab the Clorox® Disinfecting Wipes and thunder back quickly, ripping sheet after sheet after sheet out of the plastic tub and furiously scrubbing every surface within 10 feet of the offending "accident," as I then whisked her around and began not-all-that-gently cleaning HER with her own wipes, and as I then commanded her to MARCH UPSTAIRS AND GET INTO THE SHOWER AND DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING AND DO NOT MOVE FROM THAT SPOT UNTIL I TELL YOU TO.
Her eyes got so big I swear she could have seen her own shoulderblades without so much as a slight upward tilt of her chin.
We went upstairs and I blasted all cracks and crevaces with my hand-held shower head until the water ran clear and Bean was giggling (CURSES!) that it tickled. Then I lathered, rinse, repeated, dried, put her in clean underpants and carted her to her room for a time-OUT.
I returned to the scene of the crime to discover that I had accidently dumped one of the USED wipes into the garbage can instead of the potty. GLAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH! Alas it was time to go for our morning walk, so I flushed the wipe and moved the defiled can to the top of the washer to remind me to disinfect it.
When it was time to do the laundry, the Poopcan greeted me with a Hidy Ho! Mr. Stinkbucket here! and I immediately doused it with 2 tablespoons of undiluted bleach and moved it to the top of the dryer whilst I loaded the Wednesday Wash into the machine and fired it up, all the while, because I am me, and I am a complete airhead, I'm mantra-izin' to myself, don'tgetanyonyou don'tgetanyonyou, don'tgetanyonyou, BECAUSE... I'd showered and dressed already, and thanks to the new leaf I've been trying to push/pull/strain/tug/force over lately, to please, for the sake of the neighbors, try to look DECENT during the day instead of moping around in faded, holey jeans and a beat-up, too short t-shirt and scraping my hair back into a lumpy, prickly little stub of a ponytail, I was wearing a brand new pair of Ann Taylor pants fresh from the tailor and my favorite black tie-front babydoll shirt, and I didn't want any little dots of bleach to get on my lovely fresh ensemble.
Got the laundry laundering and rushed up to gather the remaining garbage from upstairs before Bean fell asleep for her nap, and returned to the laundry room to bag everything up for the trip out to the Big Bin. On the way through, I stopped at the kitchen sink to turn on the water, so it could get nice and hot, so I could then fill up Mr. StinkBucket with super hot water, to dilute the bleach and complete the disinfecting process. Took the garbage out, caught a glimpse of myself in the side of my car on the way back and noticed that HEY, THESE PANTS MAKE MY BUMMY LOOK KINDA SMALLER! became distracted by that notion (and may have begun to prance, but I'm not committing to that in writing). Came back inside through the laundry room where, with a flourish, I grabbed the Poopcan and lifted it HIGH ABOVE my head in small-butted triumph and happily leapt into the kitchen toward the running hot water, WHEN... I remembered the bleach in the can.
Which was now raining down now upon the rear passenger side of my head, coating the shoulder of my precious black shirt, and skittering down the right leg of my amazingly de-bootifying new Ann Taylor khakis.
The shirt is RURNT. In my fully-2/3rds-windows-and-not-a-curtain-in-sight-kitchen, in broad daylight, I whipped off all my clothes with no less alacrity than I'd have employed should said garments have been completely ablaze, to discover that already, these .37 seconds later, I now owned a black tie-front shirt with ONE ORANGE SLEEVE and a pair of khakis that were quickly becoming leopard-skin pants. So, I tossed the shirt into the garbage and shoved the pants under the still-running-with-considerable-zeal kitchen faucet to rinse them.
I'm going to stop there because the rest of the story is just too pitiful for public consumption, but I will ask you this question: Do you have ANY idea how slippery bleach is when dribbled onto a smooth kitchen floor and stepped in on the fly? With bare feet?
The good news is, the pants actually look okay after their hasty trip through the washer. I'll be needing those to cover up the large black and blue bruises on my tiny little bummy.