The Comedy of Errors that wasn't really very funny. As in, not at all.

Monday afternoon sucked. Big time. I called Ian at work, on the verge of tears, and asked him if he could come home early and leave work at 4. He said he couldn't, and instead left even later than usual [insert random cursing]. When he finally waltzed in the door  graced us with his presence arrived, he asked me how my day had gone. What follows is a much more calm retelling of my afternoon than that with which he was originally met.

I'm on a cooking spree lately (no, Mom, I'm not 'nesting'- for once), and was finishing up a huge batch of ragoût Monday afternoon. I had the 200 or so meatballs cooked and sitting in a huge roasting pan. I cooked the sauce separately and had just poured it into the massive roasting pan (the thing can hold a 30 lb turkey with room to spare, to give you a visual) when I realized that there is this little latch that has to be flipped in order to close these two little holes in the side of the pan, for draining purposes. How did I discover that this latch was open, you might wonder? By pouring ALL of my sauce I had slaved over into the pan, then watching the vast majority of it drain out all over my counter (which had important paperwork on it), my floor, and most obnoxiously, between my counter and my stove. You know, in that tiny little gap that is impossible to clean. Did I mention that we have a natural gas stove with very little give on the gas line? I got as much of it as I could, but at some point (I'm thinking during another *super fun* heat wave this summer- by the way, that link is worth following), that is going to smell very, very bad. So anyway, I grab the roasting pan and run over to the sink, putting in the plug to catch the sauce, since I knew the sink was clean (I had just washed a huge load of dishes from the massive batch of spaghetti sauce I had just finished). Ok, that part was under control. I grabbed a roll of paper towels and began to tackle the counter, stove, and floor when I heard my 22 month-old, Gentle Giant, begin to stir on the monitor. Of course he would have a short nap today. He sounded happy and was chatting to himself, so I decided he could wait a few minutes and continued to clean.

That's when I heard a loud crash followed by incredibly loud, shrieking yelps of pain. I ran into the dining room to find that our dog Sheldon had somehow managed to wedge his paw between the slits of one of the oak dining set chairs (I later noticed it was because he had been sitting ON the chair-scratch marks all across its surface are not so subtle. In all fairness though, he did this the other day and we let him get away with it- that was the first nail in our coffin) and that he had fallen over and was dragging the (very heavy) chair around, trying to get his paw free, panicking wildly. Do you know what happens when a dog is in pain and he panics (ok, and he is due for a walk)? Let me tell you. A panicking dog will defecate and urinate with no regard for decorum, propriety, shame, or locale. He will also try to bite you if you are touching the offended appendage, which I obviously needed to do in order to free his paw. So there I am, kneeling in this wonderful mess (all over the carpet, by the way- have I mentioned we have shag carpet in our dining room?), attempting to hold his muzzle shut while he is trying to gnaw off the chair as well as my hand, while simultaneously attempting to extricate his leg from the chair. It was a barrel of laughs, I can assure you. I finally got him free (by this time, Gentle Giant had run out of patience and was whimpering, working up to a cry), but not before he had done quite a number on the chair. See?  Trust me, the picture doesn't do the damage justice.

Then I needed to take him out to have him finish his business (ha! like there was anything left), and try to have him walk through puddles and snow to wash himself as much as possible. We get home and I have to put him in his crate because he is soaking wet and obviously has to have a bath before I can let him out in the house. Then I have to spend a good 15 minutes scrubbing and febreezing the hell out of the carpet. As I'm finishing up with that mess, my 9 month old wakes up and begins to cry. Perfect.

I go back into the kitchen, shoving wads of paper towels where I can to at least stop the spread of the mess for now, wash my hands, and prepare to go upstairs and get the younger children, who will be in lovely moods because they have had very short naps after a long morning. Excellent. As I'm toddling out of the kitchen, the roasting pan goes flying from the edge of the sink, where it was draining. The meatballs, sauce, everything goes flying top over bottom. It all lands on my huge load of freshly washed dishes, on the counter, wall, floor, in some shoes...ev.ery.where. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuudge. So I take one lingering look at the mess of brobdingnagian proportions from before that I hadn't yet finished cleaning, while still smelling dog crap and knowing I need to scrub some more 'cause 15 minutes and a pile of chemicals clearly didn't cut it, and now I'm taking in this fresh hell. F*#& it, I tell myself. It's just the kitchen, I can deal with it later. So off I went upstairs to get my crying kids.

I got the baby first, as he was in our room right at the top of the stairs. He greeted me with smiles and snuggles, and for about 10 seconds all was ok again. Then I opened the door to Gentle Giant's room, and immediately regretted that decision. Because he had been left to his own devices, while awake and contained after nap, he had decided to not only empty the contents of his diaper, but to do finger-painting with his poop. Turns out he's really quite artistic. The carpet in his room *was* beige, in case you were wondering. The sheets on his bed and change table *were* white. The sheets on his brother's crib *were* pale yellow. And my blood pressure was about 10 points lower that morning. I didn't think to take a picture, and man am I regretting that now. However I *do* have a picture of another child being artistic with his poop that I can share with you. For 2002 I was an au pair in New Zealand for a family with triplet 2 year olds. The story behind this picture is post-worthy as well, but we'll save that for another day. Hey, a poop picture is a poop picture, right? The grossest part, though? This wasn't even the poop of the child pictured.

I finally finished cleaning the upstairs, gave a bottle to the baby, settled More and Gentle Giant with a snack, re-scrubbed the carpet with more chemicals, re-febreezed, and went to tackle my kitchen, which looked as though a tornado had passed through. Fourty-five minutes later (I wish I were joking, but I'm not), I had *just* finished washing the last of the dishes (again), when there was a knock on the door. I had forgotten I was watching our friend's daughter this afternoon. Lol. That's actually the one bright side to the story: she's a lovely 10 year old girl who is old enough and willing to help with things. For example, if a mother were so engrossed in scrubbing down her entire kitchen for nearly an hour and nobody was screaming or crying, she *might* lose track of the time, and she *might* not realize how quiet the children are, and that quiet is not usually a good thing.  And, theoretically, if this were to happen, the children could take advantage of the situation and completely trash the toy room...leaving a lovely 10 year old girl to help tidy it because Maman needed a glass of wine and a sit-down for 10 freaking minutes.

All I have to say is, thank goodness this happened on a Monday- there's really no point in ruining a perfectly pleasant day of the week, now is there? Conversely, if you recall, Mondays are magical days for my husband Ian.