The Fountain of Youth
It all started last night when Child Number Three forced me to become a housewife. I never strive to becoming the model housekeeper, for there is far too much upkeep involved. I don’t want the house to always be glistening in the sunlight. I have gotten used to the floating dust storms that occur every time something is moved or even looked at. I would much rather sit back and watch a few shows and make a couple of crafts. Where is the fun in working my butt off to follow all the homemaking gurus in all their advice books in their attempt to turn Mess Queens into Domestic Goddesses. Where are all the guides to Becoming A Happy Mom with Loads of ME Time? Why must we burden ourselves to prove to our friends how perfect we are?
Because we aren’t.
Sometimes my house is clean, and sometimes it is hard to tell if it there is even a floor. There is way too much of a competition in this department and I have been consumed by it more times than not (guilty as charged). All of the pressure amongst friends of ‘whose house is tidier‘ and ‘who’s kids are more well-behaved’. ‘Who has gourmet nutritional dinners‘ and ‘who has their kids in bed by 6:00‘. The contest is quite the burden.
It is far too much of a hassle to be bending over once a week to pull off the linen and wash, dry, and fold; or put it back on the bed. Do people really change their pajamas every night? Do they really give fresh towels by every nightly shower? On that note, I strongly believe that in a shower, one should scrub himself/herself well enough that upon exiting the tub or stall he/she is sparkling clean. If that is the case, why must the towels be changed that often? Can’t they be reused? Call me old school, but unless they are a mud puddle pig, there is no reason to do the daily change.
There are toys everywhere, but I call it clutter. It is the small price you pay for having children. If I am going to clean up every toy that I see on the floor, every time I see it, my back would need to be replaced. Every bin that I fill up with the scattered toys will be, shortly after, emptied and played with. So why even bother? Sometimes I do get crazy, I admit. I actually despise stepping on those awful, little, foot-killing pieces that the manufacturers call children’s toys. Those are not toys, those are
blatant silent curses and sore feet. They are to ward off adults. After one occasion of getting a Lego stuck to the bottom of your foot, and then hearing your shouts of many obscenities, and slamming your foot onto anything to make the shooting pain stop, you will understand.
Those tiny things hurt like Hell!
Last night, I thought that I would be nice and relieve sleeping Child Number Three from his bursting diaper. I figured, what could be better than changing a baby in the midst of his slumber. That frees me from getting kicked in the gut or crotch and occasionally losing my breath from the impact. It seemed like the perfect plan. As he got bigger and stronger, I was beginning to lose the diaper battles with the little squirmer. Most of the time I am holding him in the air by his legs and as he dangles upside down, I slap on a diaper, partially wiped or not. I could never win the competition for the cleanest baby bottom. Thank G-d they don’t check children in that area, they would have called social services on me for the least sparkling butt (to put it nicely). That should keep perverts away.
Well, as I took off the exploding diaper and reached for the replacement, I saw out of the corner of my eye, lots of upward movement and I thought to myself, He can’t be peeing, right? His diaper is already jammed with urine. It was all a matter of milliseconds and I slammed a diaper over the soaring fountain of youth
and cursed and shouted and threw a few things and calmly called for my husband (Edited for all the piercing, judging glares)
He must have run out of room inside the erupting diaper. (I was trying to figure out a synonym for ‘diaper’ and what the heck? Click on the word and you will understand my confusion.) He ruined everything. I could no longer hold out on the linen washing, or anything at all. I was practically throwing everything to make sure it didn’t get to the mattress. The massive sheet, mattress pad, 5-6 pillow cases, and pajamas were all drenched in pee and in a heap on the floor. Naked and cold, Child Number Three, was lying there stunned, suddenly stripped from his clothes. It didn’t make it through the second mattress pad on the bed so I was somewhat relieved of real excessive damage.
Problem is, however, it never stops there. Once I start, I can’t stop. I turn into a nesting monster. It’s a Jekyll and Hyde meets Werewolf. Midnight and I am at the beginning of a whole new era that may, or may not, last very long. Once I change the linen, why not change all the linen in all the rooms. When that is done, why not sweep and clean. While I am there, why not rearrange the shelves and mop under the bed. While I am walking around scrubbing all the long-forgotten areas, I may as well do the windows and mirrors. Once the rag is in my hands, all the doorknobs and light switches get wiped down and disinfected. Then I move onto the toilets and notice the grime on the sink, mold on the ceiling, and mildew on the tub. I need to get rubber gloves from the kitchen and the oil splatters, near the stove, catch my eye. I continue on to the cabinets and sinks and the dusty washing machine and dryer door…
It all began with the fountain of youth…