Sometimes, the only thing left to do is pour out your wine so you can fill the glass with bourbon.
But maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.
Earlier this evening Holly asked me to give the boys a bath and she’d clean up the kitchen. This is a typical division of labor around our house yet I’m usually the one in the kitchen (which I tend to almost enjoy), but I’m leaving tomorrow for a trip and if she wants to do the kitchen I’m happy to stare at my Instagram feed while the boys splash water in crevices throughout the bathroom and their bodies.
Seriously, at one point, I heard Roman tell Calvin he was going to pour water on his back. Then on his head. Then on his penis. Those words happened. I looked up, saw him look at me for a reaction, and I chose to look back down at my Instagram feed where someone was showing off their photos of a trip to Asia. It was a kid-less couple enjoying their lives. How cute.
For the most part, this is all normal. The bathtub antics at least. I have no idea if this couple travels to Asia much.
Then Roman started spraying water where he knew he wasn’t supposed to—and where I’d told him not to—so the sprayer was going away. I got up and commanded him to give me the sprayer, ignoring his protestations and whines. As I moved the clear plastic shower curtain aside to grab the sprayer, Roman’s grievance switched from me taking away one of his toys to the horror of realization that Calvin had pooped in the tub.
No. Not poop. Diarrhea.
“HOLLLLLLLLLLLLLYYYYYY!!!” I screamed, “CODE RED!”
I yanked Roman out then Calvin out, with the type of focus and commitment to motion you can only have in moments like this. I was zen and totally fucking not zen at the same time.
And in a flash they were removed from danger, but still very much unclean.
I shoved their naked bodies out of the bathroom and towards Holly. “Please go start the other bath tub.” I told Roman. And I turned to assess the damage.
It wasn’t terrible. It was a mild deposit of fecal matter and just a few solids floated to the top. I pulled the stopper, started the shower, and washed my hands like three times (knowing I’d be washing them about 42 more times in the next few minutes, knowing that my hands were about to become forever unclean. But I washed them anyway).
I turned and walked into the other bathroom to see how Holly was doing and to help get the boys cleaned off. Right as she finished rinsing Roman and got him wrapped in a towel, we looked to see Calvin, once again standing in the tub, ankle deep in another session of poo-in-the-tub fun.
Second verse, same as the first.
After another few minutes of anarchy I had both kids dry and in their pajamas. They had sippy cups of milk and were on the couch watching PJ Masks. I told Holly I’d clean up the tubs (plural), get their teeth brushed, and put them to bed. She was on duty for the remaining kitchen detail.
Take it like a man. Grin and bear it. Love the challenge. Whatever.
30 minutes later, I walked out of Roman’s room. Having said goodnight and to not get up again, my trauma for the night was over. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
And at that, the only thing left to do was pour out the glass of wine I had yet to finish and fill up said glass with some bourbon. A proper drink for a moment such as this.
I let out a deep sigh, closed my eyes tight, and promised to tell everyone I knew who didn’t have kids to keep it that way.
So. How’s your night been? I’m about to pour a second glass of bourbon myself. Oh, and if you don’t have kids, that’s awesome. You’re smart.