It Really Was Peaceful Before This Happened

Oh my goodness, you guys.  For like twenty two minutes, my life was actually like a sitcom.  Matt was working late last night, so Elizabeth and I didn’t really bother with the regular stuff.  I asked her if she wanted to have a picnic for dinner and watch a movie while we ate and she was like “YES.”

So I told her we had to clean up the house first and she actually helped.  (I only ask her and require her to clean up when we have something good to do afterward.  I think making a two year old clean up their toys so that they can be put to bed is akin to having someone dig their own grave.  I mean, yes, eventually it will be her responsibility to clean up before bed but it isn’t yet.)  I went in to the kitchen to make sandwiches for dinner and left her in the playroom with two little toys out which she was playing with on the windowsill in the sunshine and the music was playing.  I made up a plate of sandwiches and pickles (making a sandwich for Elizabeth?  There better be pickles) and fruit and I set it on the end table and went to get the Dibits.

She was playing so cute that I got my phone and took a picture of her, intending to send it to Matt.  And I swear I had this thought, exactly at this moment, “everything is going so well right now and the house is all clean and gorgeous and dinner is ready and Elizabeth is being so sweet and everything is just SO GREAT.”

Then I walked into the room and sniffed.  And I asked Elizabeth if she’d had an accident in her underpants.  And she had.  Whatever, these things happen and let’s just say things weren’t going so well for her today, digestion-wise.  So I got some wipes and laid her down on the carpet to get her some clean pants.

And OH MY, it was the worst accident I have ever had to deal with.  I remind you that I taught daycare in my past life and had a kid smear his poopy hands on my jeans and I also cloth diapered my own daughter.  I have dealt with just about everything.

I had to pick her up, really carefully and awkwardly, and move her to the  hardwood floor because yes, it was that bad.  I could barely get her clothes off her because every movement just made everything SO. MUCH. WORSE.  And the little dog was all up in my way and he has been known to ROLL in a dirty diaper when unsuspecting relatives leave one on the floor while I get my hair done.  So I am shooing away a fifteen pound chihuahua dachshund and trying to keep our floors and the child as poop free as possible.

I give up with the wipes (HA) and decide this situation requires water.  (I should mention that this whole time, I am shrieking DON’T MOVE to Elizabeth and do you know what Elizabeth doesn’t do?  Stop moving.  Ever.)  (I mean she tried, but the girl is not programmed to be still.)  So I kind of fold over the disgusting clothes (to prevent dog rolling), abandon them on the floor, and take Elizabeth to the sink.  I plop her into the sink (with more instructions to DON’T MOVE) and go back for the clothes.  I know you are sensing foreshadowing here, but NO, the dog did not roll in the poop.  He’s moved on at this point in the story.

I take the clothes to the washer and start a rinse cycle (cloth diapers have taught me the most effective way to get poop off of things, I kind of rock at it now).  Then I go back to Elizabeth and start spraying her with the sink sprayer.  (Calm down, I disinfected the sink afterward.)  She’s protesting loudly and I am telling her that YOU WOULDN’T HAVE TO BE SPRAYED IF YOU WENT ON THE POTTY.  (She hasn’t had an accident in a really long time now.  Sometimes she uses loopholes because she is not a fan of the potty, but whatever, no underwear accidents in months.)

Then my spidey-sense kicks in and I go screaming across the room at the dog to GET OFF THE END TABLE AND STOP EATING MY SANDWICH!

Did I mention the little dog also has a dairy allergy and he’s basically just eaten an entire plate of cheese?

(The little dog didn’t used to steal food.  Until we discovered that the reason he’d been bald on his belly for most of his life was because he was allergic to his favorite food, cheese.  So we totally cut him off human food and since then, he’s resented us and occasionally helped himself from our plates.)

So I grab my plate of food and my glass of milk off the side table.  I throw what is left of the food to Trin Dog, who is outside, because A) I am not going to eat anything on that plate now, who knows what has dog slobber on it and what doesn’t and B) I don’t like to waste stuff and C) YOU ARE SO NOT GETTING IT, LITTLE DOG.  I take my plate and glass to the kitchen counter (Elizabeth is still in the sink at this point).

And I spill my full glass of milk all over the counter. 

The counter next to the stove.  And at least half of it runs down in that crack between the stove and the countertop.  (And a whole bunch also goes on the stove, so I have to take all that apart to clean it too.)  Now I am sentenced to pulling out our stove and scrubbing the floor underneath it because you cannot let dairy sit around.

I actually shrieked out “THIS IS GETTING RIDICULOUS!”

Anyway, the ridiculous ended here.  I finished cleaning up the toddler, I stuck her in the chair in front of the movie, I made us another dinner (the little dog had the audacity to look beseechingly at me while I made it, like I was going to give him some), and we ate it.  I put Elizabeth to bed and offered her M&Ms if she went straight to sleep with no crying.  (Shut up.)  (And it totally worked, duh.)

Now I have to go clean underneath the stove.