Last night I got into bed and it was quiet and dark and wonderful, but as I got comfortable I realized something wasn’t quite right. There was something in the bed that shouldn’t be. Apparently a child (or children) straight from the sandbox climbed into my bed and I could feel the sand on the sheets. I actually laid there deciding whether or not I would get up and clean it or just pretend that I was asleep on a beach far, far away.
I got up.
Tonight another child thought they would be helpful and change a wet diaper, they did a great job but between putting on the new diaper and throwing away the wet one something went terribly wrong. They went into the kitchen and proceeded to swing the wet diaper around as hard as they could until all the absorbent gel (which was fully absorbed) flew all over the cupboards, fridge, and floor. That stuff is impossible to clean. It wouldn’t vacuum, it wouldn’t sweep, it barely wiped up. Not to mention it was from a WET diaper . . . nasty. I got it cleaned up and then sanitized in record time nonetheless.
The stain on the carpet from the White Out, the impromptu haircuts, the fat lip from the Hot Wheel, the writing on the wall (literally), the hidden concoctions under the bathroom sink, fractured collar bones, the flooded bathroom floor, Poison Control on speed dial, the permanent marker tattoos, foreign objects and the list goes on. I love it all. Not initially, but eventually.
I have four boys and it becomes more evident and wonderful every second.
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