Jesus Bless Your Soul Brooklynn Rose, You Pooped in the Bathtub...AGAIN!

I know by writing this blog title I'm simply asking for trouble.... What’s that old expression - Things can ALWAYS get worse?

Obviously, a traumatic event (involving blood or a natural disaster) would trump my evening's activities...but since my husband left two hours ago, I did almost burn my house down. Therefore, I think I'm entitled to feel a little frazzled.

It started innocently enough. I was going to do something nice and healthy and majorly out of character...I was going to cook dinner. You see, after wrangling three small people for eight hours while my husband is on vacation (or what he likes to call work), I can barely put together a complete thought, let alone a complete meal. Apparantly, it's in the best interest of my children that I let my husband cook dinner most nights, because I'm obviously not intelligent enough by 4:30 p.m. to know you should not add oil to a burnt, hot wok.

I thought that when I added to oil to the black, dried, crust on the bottom of my wok - it would just effortlessly flake right off at the slightest touch of my spatula. Oh no, no, no!!! Instead, I was met with a face full of smoke, what I'm pretty sure will amount to third-degree oil burns on my forearms, and a four-year-old saying, "Cool Mommy! You made fire!"

Note to self (and anyone else out there as unintelligent as me) Do NOT try to put a grease fire out by running it under the faucet. I mean, it made sense to me considering that's what the big, strong firefighters come busting into your house with...But as soon as the water hit my wok, the flames grew and my smoke detectors had a field day.

I was waiting for one of my neighbors to call 911 as I opened my front door releasing a cloud of smoke out into the neighborhood. Luckily, a storm was brewing so my neighbors weren't out in their front yard to see me standing on my front porch with a flamethrower of a wok in my hands.

The fire finally disappeared. I scratched the stir-fried veggies and fixed spaghetti. We had a relatively uneventful dinner until the storm gusts approached our house and I saw my lawn chairs flying by my front window. I got my chairs safely tucked beside my house, only to come back in the house to realize I couldn't find Bianca.

"Bianca!" I'm screaming through the house  - worrying she's somehow gotten out the front door with me - only to hear water running in my bathroom. "What are you doing, Bianca?" I ask nervously.

"I'm trying to wash the poopie off of me," she casually responds.

That's just fabulous, I thought ushering Bianca into the bathroom for a bath.

I decide to just throw all three girls into the tub together. Brooklynn goes in first. I turn my back for one second to get Brylee's clothes off only to hear Bianca scream, "Brooklynn pooped in the bathtub!"

I turn around to find an adult-size turd floating by Brooklynn, Bianca straddling the sides of the tub so not to touch the water. I get that cleaned-up, get all three girls in the tub, go to throw diapers away and hear Bianca say, "Well, Jesus Bless Your Soul Brooklynn Rose. You just pooped in the tub again."

Really? Really????

 

So it’s now 6:30 – a mere two hours since Chuck left for his meeting – and I’ve put all of my girls in bed. I can’t take any more. I’m supposed to be going to the gym when Chuck gets home, but I think I’d rather drink a bottle of wine. I think I've earned it. I mean, in the last thirty minutes I've cleaned poop from bottoms, clothes, the tile in front of my toilet, my sink, and the bathtub (twice.)