For Jaime

It's been a very emotional day over here. During church, I received a text that someone I had known and corresponded with had passed and had to hold it together throughout the sermon and then top it all of by singing "Because He lives, I can face tomorrow/ Because He lives, all fear is gone/ Because I know He holds the future/ And life is worth the living just because He lives." My friend Jaime was a very fun, and sassy lady, a committed mom and fellow lover of sparkly butterfly and dragon fly jewelry. And so I decided that the first thing I need tonight was a little levity to honor the memory of my friend, who loved to make jokes and  to hear funny anecdotes. Especially about naughty children. So this one's for you, Jaime. 

Disclaimer: This is not for the weak stomached.

Bathtime is always the happy conclusion of a busy day - the boys had gotten to spend a fun-filled afternoon being stuffed with sugar and love from their grandparents. So when they walked in the door, light was waning and it was the golden hour of BATHTIME (which as well all know, is the start of the bed-time sequence, and therefore is also Wine o'clock!)

So as my fuzzy headed child is reveling in the bubble so thick he cannot see his appendages, I'm enjoying a nice night cap and catching up with a friend via imessage. Sounds peaceful. It sure was. Until I looked up and noticed the Baby whipping something into his mouth - and clamping his jaw shut so his suspicious mother could be quite certain that he was up to something completely mischievous. And it didn't take me long to recoil in that violent disgust reserved only for the vilest of the vile.... vomit..... raw sewage.... maggots.... and... you guessed it, poop.

Now, there's always a split second where you consider just scooping out the poop from the kid's mouth and fishing the remnants from under the bubbles and returning to your peaceful wine sipping... the kid needs a bath especially now. But then your brain starts working again and you start hollering and yanking the baby from the bathwater. And covering him with a bottle of Purel. And brushing his teeth. And throwing away the toothbrush. And hollering for DH to put him to bed so that you can disinfect .... the sewage tank that was once your bathtub. Unless, of course, DH would rather do that and you could put the baby to bed.... no? Shucks.

There are very rare moments when I have to pull on my galoshes to clean a tub, but this was one of those times, because people, he had chosen my beautiful, jetted, king sized spa bathtub to grace with his turds.... nevermind the fact that he had been with his grandparents all afternoon and could have more conveniently left his lovely presents to them. But as luck would have it, and as Murphy likes it, Turd-boy chose me. Hoo-rah.

And of course we are down to the very last cup of bleach in the Clorox bottle. (Because when you live with three men, tiny or full-sized, you NEED a lot of it!)

And of course I had to use every single sheet of Wet Ones to bob for turds. One of which escaped my notice and gotten stuck in the drain and when I had a go at it, slipped down the drain. Under all those thick, thick bubbles. The words of Mary Poppins are fresh in my brain... what's that? "With every job that's to be done, there is an element of fun!" Maybe not.  God only knows how much bath water and bleach I'm going to have to pour down that drain (which is IMPOSSIBLE to remove) before that thing dislodges and flies off to feed someone's poor flushed goldfish. Sigh. Now the only thing left is to bleach every single toy (inside and out) and leave the tub to marinade in Clorox until the offending germs have been smothered. Why is it always on a night where every single one of the bath tub toy arsenal makes it into the tub?

I'm really earning my mini-van tonight.