Thank heavens for Weekends! Oh how I love to wake up at my own leisure, stretching and yawning in bed for as long as I like. No alarm shrieking and none of the screaming wailing chaos of school mornings. Saturdays are bliss, well let’s just say they’re as close as it gets!
I spoke too soon, my eleven year old has wandered downstairs to find the dog has had a funny tummy overnight and left a rather large, unsightly, smelly puddle at the bottom of the stairs. Unfortunately for him he found it with his bare toes and now the sound of his overly dramatic stomach retching is filling the house.
“Mum, Mum (barf) Buddy’s poo’d (barf) it’s in-between my toes (barf Barf) Mum, help barf”.
The noise has lured my fifteen-year-old, out of his bedroom, and he is now rolling around the landing crying with laughter adding insult to injury to his brother’s shitty predicament by shouting at him.
“Ewwww, I told you your feet stink.”
Morning has broken once again in the crappiest – no pun – of situations. This by the way is all before morning coffee which means my patience levels along with my caffeine levels are dangerously low.
I make my way downstairs to find Eleven perched at the bottom of the stairs on one leg like a shit-ridden flamingo contemplating the gooey mess between his toes. His face, a picture of the disgusting terror that accompanies stepping in dog poo with no shoe or sock barrier protection. I am tempted to whip out my phone and record the moment, this was surely viral material. I suppress a giggle and the phone idea and pick him up and carry him into the downstairs bathroom.
The sound of retching once again fills the air as Hubby makes his way downstairs to see what all the noise is about.
“Darling, watch the turd at the bottom of the stairs and can you clean it up while I clean this dirty foot please”. I try to keep the smile from my voice. I know what’s coming.
My husband cannot even be in the same room as poo. Not any poo, he couldn’t even stomach the kids nappies without almost regurgitating his insides outside. A smug smile crosses my face and I can’t stifle my giggles this time around. The noise coming from the living room is priceless. Eleven’s retching was nothing in comparison to his father’s. This one might be worth some video footage.
My 13 year old has now joined in the circus and she is filming her father’s weak attempts at cleaning the offending poo with pink marigolds and a carrier bag. Now the carrier bag would be a good idea if it was a solid poop but this disgusting little puddle has nothing solid about it. He’s just smearing it around the floor blindly with his head turned in the opposite direction, retching so loud if anyone walking past outside heard him they’d surely call emergency services.
My cheeks are aching from laughing and Eleven, having overcome his horrifying ordeal, is now also giggling at the pathetic attempts his father is making to clean up the mess. He is whiter than the milk standing on the kitchen counter and I start to feel a little sorry for him. His retching still incessant and loud, the mess is no nearer to being cleaned up than it was when the dog delivered it. I wipe away the tears rolling down my cheeks, suppress my smile and grab the kitchen roll, bleach and mop.
“Leave it, leave it, you’re just making it worse”, I try to sound as stern as I can muster.
This is his cue to run, still retching to the bathroom.
With 3 pairs of eyes upon me I cannot show weakness here. I need to lead by example and, with three swift swipes, a splash of bleach, and a swish of the mop, the floor is once again squeaky clean. Mama to the rescue while Hubs is still retching in the bathroom.
“Would you like some pancakes with Nutella darling? ” I ask through the closed bathroom door. His response makes me think he probably doesn’t.
“Right guys, can you get yourselves down here for breakfast please. Football is at 11.30, can you get your kit and bag ready please.” I always say that and then always end up preparing the bag myself as I can’t trust Eleven to pack everything he needs.
Hubby finally emerges from the bathroom looking rather ghostly. The mornings events have left him shaken to say the least.
“I don’t feel well, I’m going back to bed”, he groans sheepishly, avoiding eye contact with any of us.
By Amanda Carrington ~ Desperate Housewife