Carter and Emerson were playing contentedly on the kitchen floor this evening. That should have been my first clue that something was up. Generally, when I'm prepping dinner, one is standing on my feet, hugging my legs while the other one is sitting on my heels.
It makes my job easy and efficient.
For that reason, I ignored the fact that they were very focused on the floor around the corner of the bar. They finally caught my attention, however, when they started grunting like happy little piglets. I took a closer look.
For Valentine's Day dessert, I made brownies and ice cream. I remembered seeing a drip of ice cream hit the floor, but it was chaotic trying to get everyone their desserts, then clearing dishes, getting kids to bed, etc. I forgot about the floors. They are sticky everywhere all the time, so it didn't feel like a huge priority. (Don't plan on taking your shoes off, if you ever come to visit. Our floors will literally ruin your socks.) It takes one meal after I mop to bring them back to looking like nobody cares. So I try not to. It works very seldom, but I will continue to meet with my therapist on this issue. Which reminds me, I am going to need to get a therapist.
So you may have guessed what the girls were scraping off the floor and enjoying for their late afternoon refreshment. I was equal parts "sick" and "you get it, Girls!" It was ice cream after all, and they are my daughters. Carter had just gotten done projectile vomiting on my feet, so I figured eating yesterday's dessert off the floor couldn't make things much worse.
This is what happens to you when you have kids. You lose all your standards, all your pride, and all of your personal space. You make dinner with vomit on the cuffs of your jeans, let your toddlers snack off the floor, and have unidentifiable stickiness everywhere. Plus, it's loud. Tell your friends.
Comments
Post a Comment