This story is about my offspring and being their mother. In this particular story I only had two children at the time. The third was just a glimmer of hope and a distant dream. My oldest daughter was a preschooler and four years old and my son was only two. I had a schedule that I had to adhere to every day. I was not really a regimented person before I had kids and yet after I had them my life was all about being responsible and schedules. Along with having the kids, we also had pets that I was responsible for. One in particular was my son’s best friend his beagle pup named Jewel. Jewel was his Christmas gift from us. She was black and white and loyal. (she reminded me of snoopy) I would send him and Jewel in the backyard to play. They would be walking side by side, he in his red ball cap and Jewel bounding (she would leap as she walked next to him, it was adorable) ever his faithful sidekick.

This particular morning I had gotten everyone their breakfast and I worked out. Now I had time to shower, get the kids lunch and bring my oldest to her preschool class. I ask the kids what movie they wanted to watch (don’t judge me Barney was a fantastic babysitter) they couldn’t watch anything violent like sharp tooth or scar (because it made my son bite his sister). They agreed on an educational film about the alphabet, probably. I put it in the VCR (you’re old), started it up and headed up for my shower with the door ajar so I can hear if someone starts screaming. I get out of my shower and as I am drying off I hear them laughing and talking. I smile at myself because it is the best sound in the world when your kids are getting along. I get dressed, I brush my teeth and hair. I only hear happy noises (its a testament of what a great parent I am, really) I blow-dry my hair and do my makeup. I am right on time…I even have time to make them a nice lunch. As I descend the staircase I am hearing laughing and my oldest is asking this very alarming question of her TWO year old brother “Are you giving your dog a bath? Are you giving your dog a bath?”

My heart starts slamming in my chest (I knew I wasn’t a good mother, fuck me) I flew down the stairs in record time (This should really be in the Olympics…responding to your kids doing shit they aren’t supposed to) and I quickly and yet cautiously head into the KITCHEN to where the “bath” is taking place. I walk over to the crime scene as anyone would when a disturbing crime is actually taking place and there is my son rubbing fucking CRISCO all over his dog. CRISCO!!!! Yes, let that sink in….my shortening in my Lazy Susan (maybe Susan should have gotten off of her lazy ass to prevent this fucking catastrophe in the first place) being rubbed all over his dog. My son has it all over him and the coach for this sport is standing there trying to look all innocent with greasy hands and face….my oldest child….acting as if she just stumbled upon the scene! I look at them and then the time and now my leisure shower seems incredibly self indulgent. Now I have to find a way to clean them up, give them lunch and get my daughter to school on time.

I’m doing the math in my head as I am stripping them of clothes and shoving them all into the shower. I say “Start soaping up!” I run downstairs and make PB&Js for everyone. I put them in bags because now we have to eat in the car (I know, honey, that you said we can’t be eating in the car. But what You don’t understand is that sometimes its unavoidable. Like when they give the dog a bath in crisco) I hear them yelling and I run upstairs, the wet dog is loose, and also greased, so you can’t fucking catch her. I get a good enough hold of her and I bring her back to the community shower for all of the inmates. I peer in to see how things are shaping up.

Here’s the thing about Crisco……It’s waterproof. Meaning the kids are standing in the shower and the water is just slipping straight down the drain. My kids are soaping up but it’s not helping because they are waterproof. Oh for the Love of all things Holy what in the Hell is a mother to do now. I make a snap decision and jump in with them. I start lathering everyone up, the kids, the dog and what I notice now is that a crisco transfer is happening. Instead of the kids getting cleaner I am just getting more and more greasy. Are you fucking kidding me right now? I accept my defeat as it is and turn off the shower. (I know! I hear you, but you see I didn’t know about the dawn trick because this was the nineties when the oil spills went uncovered on the mainstream media and that commercial with the grease duckling didn’t exist)

I get my greasy kids dressed. I take the greasy dog too, because my day now involves a trip to the vet to see if this is harmful to her. I dole out the pb&js and head to the preschool. I walk in soaking wet hair….makeup smeared and I say “Hey, at recess time can you make sure she isn’t in direct sunlight? I don’t want her to get cooked.” (because she decided to dress like fucking fried chicken today because she is a little asshole) They give me that smile with sadness in their eyes like they always do. I kiss my little asshole goodbye and tell her that I love her. (I really do love her. My children mean everything to me…even when they have defeated me with a huge tub of crisco)

I now drive straight to the vets with no appointment. Our Veterinarian is cool (I also think he may sniff ether when no one is looking) but he is old school (I was a young twenty-something and this guy was in his sixties) and he knows the ins and outs of pet care. He also isn’t judgmental when you show up greased with your greased son and your equally greased (actually she was the most greased because it was her crisco bath) dog. He looks at me and laughs, he says “Nope, she is going to be fine. She might have the shits for a while but it’ll work through her.” he gave me a prescription for ipecac and sends me on my way with this nugget of wisdom “It’ll have to come out one way or the other.”

I drive home both shameful and relieved. I unbuckle my son’s carseat and realized that the dog ate my sandwich, plastic bag and all. I really wasn’t hungry but I didn’t think plastic was on my dog’s diet. I pick up the slobbered baggie with the sandwich remnants in it and I throw it in the trash. Once I am home I get an assessment of the real damage done to my kitchen. There was Lazy Susan sitting there wide open (should’ve called her easy Susan) and the mostly gone tub of Crisco with dog hair decorating the contents and the rim. The floor was slippery and so wasn’t the cupboards and the counter top. (so if you slipped, anything that you were going to grab onto to break your fall was going to fail to help you in your demise) I use dish soap (it’s Dawn but It was on sale and I still make no connection) I clean it up as best as I can and it is now time to pick up my daughter from preschool.

We all pile in the car, dog included because I am afraid to leave her alone. I get to the school, all of the kids run over to pet the dog. They all make comments like “EWWW! She’s all slimy!” Whatever, little kids, you don’t know me! You don’t know my life!

As I was driving home I was talking to my daughter about her day. The conversation stops because at this moment there is the MOST retched smell wafting in my airspace and I start to gag and my eyes water. My daughter yells “EWWWW! I think he pooped his pants.”

followed by “I didn’t poop my pants! I didn’t! Mom, roll down the windows. It smells bad in here.”

flashback sequence: its in black and white now because that’s how we remember apparently, to the vet saying in slow motion for dramatic affect “SHE MIGHT HAVE THE SHIIIIIITTTTTTTS!!!!!”

The dog did have the shits…all over my car. So when I got home that was the second mess I had to clean up, on this fuckfest of a day and that wasn’t any easier. I was gagging and retching and taking breaks in between to get lungs full of fresh air. The kids are inside watching tv and having snack and hopefully not giving the dog another crisco bath. I threw it out but there may have been another tub of it in the Lazy asshole (who is the absolute worst because how do you babyproof that easy bitch). I get the car to smell less like a turd on wheels and I go inside to take my third shower for the day. I look in the living room and there they all were sound asleep on the couch all curled up, including the exploding diarrhea dog. Sweet little bastards! I climb the stairs like a soldier home from battle (don’t judge me that was hell and you know it) I look at my reflection and I was like “people saw me like this today and I don’t even care.” my hair was a mess of tangles and curls, my makeup was all smeared because of the water, the crisco and gagging tears. I was a hot mess! I probably smelled like dog shit and failure. I climbed in the shower and lathered up as best I could. I get out of the shower and check again on the kids. They are still asleep, thank the holy spirit! I get myself dressed and I finish cleaning the house. It looked like a hazardous waste dump.

When my husband strolls in after his long day at work, where right now I’m guessing where they manufacture rainbows and adult conversations, and tells me about his rough day. He doesn’t ask me how my day was he just wants to sit and relax. That’s ok because I don’t want to tell him about my day. This fuckfest is behind me now, why poke at it?

“Becki, the dog just shit on the carpet!” of course she did. (Hey, the rest of the baggie she ate. Perfect, one less thing to worry about!)

disclaimer: no dogs were harmed in the making of this story. She lived a full life and was loved every single day of it!

disclaimer II: as I wrote this story my dog (different dog) was farting in the background to help me conjure up the memories of the dog shit smell! Shout out to Princess the flatulent pup! Thank you for the inspiration!

There is no need to write a moral to this story….you see where I went wrong.

Until next time 🙂

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s