Well, Crap!

Not sure how your week is going, but let me share with you how mine started.

I got to work Monday morning, and my phone rang. My sweet daughter was getting ready to leave for a week at camp, so I of course I answered her call.

“Mom,” she began. I could hear the panic in her voice. “I’m pretty sure it was YOUR dog that left a nice gift in the living room floor.”

As I’m sitting at work, I’m really wondering why she’s calling me to tell me about this situation. Roy is home. She is home. Her brother is home. Surely someone can figure out how to handle this mess. Someone other than mom who is miles away. And working.

But no. Mom fixes everything. Mom is the ultimate answer to every dilemma in the house. Mom is the one to call when we don’t know what to do.

Or don’t want to do something.

“I don’t think I can clean it up without puking,” Cassie continued.

I love this girl. I really love this girl. But, she can be a little lacking in the domestic area. Cleaning is not her strong suit, and cleaning up dog poop is certainly not high on her list of abilities. Just so you can fully comprehend her feigned lack of knowledge in these things, this girl tried to use the toilet bowl brush to unclog her toilet—a fact she reminded me of during this latest poop problem.

“Honey,” I said as lovingly as I could, “what do you want me to do about this? I’m not home. I can’t clean it up. I think you might be better off talking to Roy. The two of you will have to figure out how to handle this mess.”

That was the end of the conversation—but certainly not the end of the story.

A few minutes later—really before I could even get back to my task at hand—my phone began to buzz again. This time, it was a FaceTime call from Cassie.

“Mom! It’s bad!” she began. I wasn’t certain whether it was laughter or panic I detected in her voice.

Until I heard the undeniable sounds in the background.

The sounds of Roy.

The sounds of gagging.

And heaving.

And gagging some more.

“Mom! Roy tried to clean it up,” a fact I had surmised from the sounds of his wretching in the background.

At this point in the conversation, she flipped the video to show me Roy. There he stood, over the sink, gagging and heaving. The sweat was dripping from his face. He was trying so hard to hold it together, but he just continued to gag and heave. And gag and heave. And gag some more.

And I began to laugh—hysterically.

But the story still wasn’t over.

Remember Cassie said Roy had tried to clean up the mess?

I so wish I had a video of the events that had transpired at my house. From what I have heard, Cassie covered the dog’s gift with some paper towels so she didn’t have to look at it. She did indeed consult with Roy on the best way to retrieve the gift.

“Should I look at it?” he asked Cassie.

“No, absolutely not. It’s bad,” had been Cassie’s advice.

Heeding her warning, Roy attempted to clean up the dog poop. He planned it out very carefully He moved the trash can within a few inches of the gift in our living room, hoping the move would be quick and seamless. He grabbed a plastic bag which he carefully placed over the paper towels Cassie had used to cover the gift.

And he then used his hand to pick up the solid pieces.

The feel of the chunks in his hand was apparently more than his weak stomach could handle. The gags and heaves began to come from deep within him. The intensity began to increase, and his movements became more exaggerated.

It was then he realized some of it was not solid—but somewhat runny.

As he attempted to very quickly deposit the gift into the trash can, his rapid movements and heaving caused some of the more liquid portions to escape his grip and he slung it across the living room. I now had dog poop not just on my floor—but on my television stand, my wall, and everything else in the living room.

And it was obvious that Roy was going to be absolutely no help in cleaning up the rest of the mess. It would be left for me to deal with when I got home.

Can I just say that this is the glorious job of being a mom? I love my children. I love my husband. They are wonderful in so many ways.

Yet it seems that I am the only one with a stomach strong enough to withstand the bodily fluids that sometimes inadvertently escape from the living beings within our home—whether four-legged or two-legged. It seems that I am the only one capable of cleaning up the smelly, disgusting messes. I guess they assume since I am a nurse, it’s only fitting. I am thankful they don’t happen too often.

After some intense laughter, I did what every loving mother and wife would do—I posted the interaction on Facebook for all my friends to read and understand what true life is all about. No hiding behind some social media façade. No. Our lives are real, friends.

Real smelly. Real disgusting at times. Filled with messes.

And filled with laughter. And love. And joy. And teamwork.

Because somewhere between the early phone call and the time I got home, Roy somehow managed to clean up the remaining mess. When I walked in the door after work, I found him exactly where I had last seen him—standing over the kitchen sink, gagging and heaving and sweating and trying to recover from the traumatic event he had just experienced. Apparently his war-time experiences have nothing on a little dog poop.