One of THOSE Weeks

When you have kids, you know it isn't going to be all tea parties and glittery bliss.

Our fun little week was going along brilliantly, with the exception of a frustrating doctor appointment and lingering colds. Then, on Thursday night, Matthew was taking a bath when he uttered, "Oopsie."

I won't go into the details, but let's just say there was an accident which required the use of a slotted spoon and lots of Clorox. And some Drano. And a screwdriver and plumber's snake. Yes, it was a long night.

The following morning dawned brightly, and I figured the previous night's incident was a fluke and we were back onto our normal track. I sent Matt to preschool, mopped all the floors, and then picked Matt up from preschool. We were on a tight schedule- lunch and then a visit from our speech therapist.

Matt went downstairs, then came back upstairs. "Oopsie."

Another accident, this time in his pants. Except this time, he tried to clean it up himself. With exactly 10 minutes before the speech therapist was to arrive, I managed to clean the child up, re-mop the bathroom floor, start a new load of laundry, and say a prayer of thanks for the people who invented Clorox.

Our speech therapist arrived, helped both of my children learn to speak, and then departed. Never in the history of motherhood was naptime more anticipated than on this day.

Luckily, Matthew fell asleep on the recliner. I didn't bother to move him, lest I wake him up. I covered him with a blanket and took Nolan upstairs for his nap. I came back downstairs and re-positioned Matt, who was curiously damp. Actually, the whole recliner was damp. After moving the leaking child and going through an entire bottle of "Super Pet Strength Upholstery Cleaner," I sat down.

Bang. Bang. Bang. BANG BANG BANG.

Oh, good heavens. Nolan was making a racket upstairs. What in the world could that noise possibly be? I almost didn't want to know. Perhaps it would just stop and Nolan would go back to sleep. With the way the day had been going, I figured it was entirely possible that Nolan had disassembled the second floor of our house. I summoned some courage, went upstairs, and found this:





A toilet-water drenched two-year old, pretending to "fix the toilet." With the tools we had accidentally left upstairs from the whole slotted-spoon/bathtub incident. And an entire roll of toilet paper placed into the toilet. At least he didn't try to flush it.

Sometimes, things go so drastically wrong, that the only reaction you can have (to keep from losing your mind), is to calmly remove said child, decontaminate him, put him back in his bed, and then go downstairs. And laugh. Hysterically.

One day, this will actually be funny. For now, I'm just glad that week is behind us!