Sunday, November 16, 2008

Acidic Hootie

My mom sent me an e-mail last week with a song from Darius Rucker, formerly Hootie of Hootie and the Blowfish. Note: She did not send me a mascara alert, so I am, that's cause I'm so nice. Mascara alert! I'll wait while you go take a listen, meet me back here in 3 minutes and 21 seconds, give or take a few.

Gets you right there duttin' it?

Tonight though, I looked at it from a whole 'nother perspective....if you recall, we have all been sick...every one except Dylan. I thought surely this had all passed. Everything has been bleached and Lysoled. Everyone had gone back to school and gone about our normal lives again. Party planning has taken place. Invitations have been sent out and there is a party here, tomorrow. Carpets are clean, house is almost clean and I was making good time.

Dylan asked if he could go lay down at about 6:00 p.m. last night and that I is when I began to get this fear in the pit of my stomach. I kept checking on the boy and he was sleeping. I finally decided that everyone was going to go to bed early tonight and we all hit the hay at 7:00 p.m. (Y'all wish you had my talent don't cha?!) Everyone was snoozing and I had woken up for some reason and then got Wade off to work. I was lying in bed watching The Locator when I heard something fall. I paused the show and listened and then I heard it. The splash that you don't want to hear. It is not the splash of your child dropping tea in the floor or splashing in the bathtub, no, this was THE splash. The splash that said, "Ho, oh, oh, you are going to be up for quite a while!" I rounded the corner to peer into the bathroom and there he was, praying. Pale. Pitiful.

(Oh thank God, he made it to the linoleum and didn't get the carpet!) I threw down some towels as a makeshift bridge between he and I. I noticed then that he had missed the toilet a slight bit, but luckily, there was the mop bucket! I can't decide if he didn't make it because he didn't have his glasses on or if he just had bad aim.

I got him up, got him back in his bed and went to survey the damage.

(Oh man! Not my flat iron!) I began the tedious task of cleaning the flat iron off, all the cracks and crevices were caked! I thought back to the song above. It was my new mantra, but it was now for cleaning up my flat iron. This won't last that long...

Let me just admit something right here! I have a pretty weak stomache when it comes to some things. I don't do pimples, I can't handle farts and I can't do vomit, unless it is from one of my children. When it's my husband, I can't do it. Number one, he is LOUD! I am sure if I absolutely had to, I could gag my way through it, but ....really, I would rather not.

So, the bathroom is all shiny and smelling fresh again. My flat iron is ready for tomorrow's party and, oh yes, the party will go try telling a five-year-old that her diamond-themed bling party is cancelled because of a little vomit in your flat iron.....

....and so you see, even vomit can make you sentimental.

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