I've read that opinions are like assholes ... everybody's got one. Here's mine. ( Ahem, my Opinions! Not booty!)

Tub Turds

Tub Turds

It took hours of tears and a heap of self pity, but my spirit has been broken - which has as allowed me to see all of the chaos surrounding me as nothing short of ... pure comedy gold.

Our saga last left off with me keeping the house a level of clean that could only be described as psychotic. Monica Geller ain't got nothing on me!

Johnny came home for a long weekend, and it was bliss. Or as we now know it: the calm before the storm.

Here are some things that have happened while Daddy was away:

We had an offer on our house. It was a good offer, but the buyer had not yet seen our house. She wanted us to take it off the market and hold it for her on a Friday - before a weekend of potential showings. She reserved the right to change her mind when she could view it the following Monday. Our realtor said "no bueno" and we refused her offer until she could make it to the house. This felt risky to me. I do not like feeling risky. The weekend came and went. It rained and poured and not a single person came to view the house. In turn, my face rained and poured. I was convinced we had ruined our chances with our potential buyer.

Monday arrived and we had not heard anything about the potential buyer. Jet had a doctor's appointment early that morning. I had stayed up late prepping for a hopeful showing ... cleaning like a crazed maniac - and then woke up way before what was necessary, to clean a little more and get us out the door on time. Traffic from the burbs to the city is rather unpredictable, so even though our pediatrician is 40 minutes away, I gave myself 90 to get there. I'm going to preface this part of the story with a reminder that I am nearly 8 months pregnant at this point, and stressed like whoa. We are pulling into the doctor's office a cool 30 minutes early when it happens. I'm feeling good. And then ... Navy barfs.

I can't see it - but I ask Jet how much. He says it's a lot. I instinctively divide his answer by five. (9 year olds are a tinge dramatic - er, mine is anyway.) I call the doc and tell them that I may be a smidge late, as my 2 year old has puked herself silly in the backseat. I realize that I have 3 baby wipes, and no change of clothes. I count my blessings that there is a Target 4 minutes from my location. We arrive at Target, and I pop in the backseat to assess the damage. I learn that instead of dividing Jet's "a lot" comment, I should have multiplied it - by the Atlantic Ocean. Navy weighs 25 pounds. This is 97 pounds of barf. And it's chocolate milk, so the smell. My gosh, the smell.

I do my best with my 3 baby wipes to scoop up the mess, but I barely make a dent. I strip Navy down to her diaper, plop her in a cart, and head straight for the bathroom. I'm crying by this point. No, I'm wailing. We walk in to stares, and spend the next 20 minutes trying to scrub the puke off my girl. She got a sink bath, in a Target restroom. Her skin reacts bright pink to the light pink bathroom soap - I do my best to clean her off - with water. Even after rashy soap and water, she smells like a landfill.

We speed shop and grab a new outfit, a billion wipes, Febreeze and Lysol wipes. We are stared at. I feel judged. I feel embarrassed. I am totally overwhelmed. I'm audibly crying - why has nobody asked if we are okay? We head to the car where I do my best to wipe out the remaining puke. Navy is in new clothes, I have used 1/2 of the wipes, and we are back on the road. We show up to the doctor's appointment 30 minutes late. I had called ahead - but even with a tear streaked face and a barf scented toddler, I get a little 'tude for being late. As we sit and wait our turn, I find vomit in Navy's hair. I cry. Poor Jet, this is HIS appointment.

We leave, and I get a call for a showing. I prep myself with a "THIS IS IT." I drive to my parents house, get Navy properly bathed and the car seat deconstructed (Bee-Tee-Dubs, it is no less than 10 days new when Navy decides to saturate it with her curdled milk ocean.) Everything is feeling like it is on the up and up - the car and child are both vomit free, and somebody is scheduled to go and see our house. I get a call rescheduling the showing. For much sooner. I rush home to make sure everything is ready and perfect.

30 minutes before the showing I get Deco into the car. (Turns out bear sized dogs are frowned upon for house showings.) We had nothing to do or see, so I did 10-15 minute laps by the house. I was spying - innocently. Hoping to get a glimpse of the potential buyer. But they never showed. Each 10 minute loop left me with a heavier heart. After the hour ended, I bawled. Round 8 trillion. I called the scheduling department to make sure I hadn't had my wires crossed on the times - I hadn't. They marked my appointment as a "no show".

I go home and drop off Deco. I am furious that I stayed up so late, and woke so early just to prep the house for somebody who didn't even bother to show. I look for some sign that somebody had been there. The lights are all still on. No business cards are left on the table. I go back to my Mom's house to pick up the kids. I have wilted. I am ruined. I have been defeated by baby barf, a rainy weekend, and a buyer who didn't show up. I curl up into a ball, and pity-party cry myself to some version of sleep.

I wake up to Johnny calling. Saying we have an offer on the house - I should be happy. But I am not happy. The original offerer had resent her offer, claiming to have seen the house. I am ye-of-little-faith. I believe she is a liar and that there is no way she saw the house. Hello! I drove by every 10-15 minutes! I do not trust her, or her offer, or this deal. A contract has been written up. I scour it, looking for the trap. I am angry. At the entire world. Her realtor says they came by but not for long. I think that she has ruined my day enough with her no show, and now she wants to lie about it. THE NERVE. I had to spend more than an hour circling my neighborhood with a 140 pound dog and his breath, after a morning nothing short of actual hell - I am running on 4 hours or less of sleep, I'm pregnant and pissed, and I am not interested in her liar deal. I am coached to take the offer. I begrudgingly sign paperwork. I do not celebrate, though everybody else does. I sulk, and continue to feel sorry for myself.

Before bed, I go upstairs to make sure all the lights are off. And there I see it. Footprints on the freshly vacuumed floor. Proof that my buyer had actually been in my house. I feel like a crazy person. I realize that I AM a crazy person.

I wake the next day in much better spirits. Nobody barfs. I don't clean the dog bowl out. I don't even make my bed. My house has sold.

But then life starts throwing more "comedy" at me. After my day from hell, the following disasters struck - just to you know, test my sanity threshold.

- Jet is aging a little too rapidly. We are sent to get x-rays and make sure his bones are not developing too quickly. He is in the normal-ish range, but it still feels unsettling to some degree. He enjoys bragging to his friends that his bones are 11 even though he isn't even 10. We are advised to keep a close eye and make sure he doesn't show premature signs of puberty. I do not love the word "puberty" and my sweet son, mixed in the same sentence.

- Navy trips and busts her lip. My heart breaks that she is in pain. My sanity is threatened because she is in pain. She becomes an unrulier version of her already unruly self. Because she is unable to drink out of her normal cup (her lips were so jacked up) she becomes dependent on Cheerios instead of the waters, juices and milks she normally depended on. She feeds Deco Cheerios, despite my desperate pleas. Deco slobbers everywhere. Navy eats some of his slobber. I find Cheerios in my hair every single morning when I wake up. This goes on for no less than 7 days. She is now a full fledged Cheerio addict. So is Deco.

- I find out that my placenta has moved (Yay! No C-Section!!!) but that I am high risk as a "bleeder".

- Guess what I don't like being called? Hint: Bleeder.

- Jet gets a concussion. Mother of the year doesn't believe him until he is basically tucking himself into bed, voluntarily, at 8:30 at night. I check his pupils, call my FIL (conveniently a doctor) and make sure he is safe. I think all is well until he stands and releases the Pacific Ocean from his mouth. I stand in his barf, feeling extremely concerned, as Deco lunges to get a taste, and Navy (little opportunist!) strips down naked. Thankfully, my parents come to the rescue. Jet spends a couple of hours in the ER and is released with no symptoms. As we exit back home, he unleashes the Indian Ocean in my Mom's backseat. (Blue Powerade stained potatoes. Mmmmmmm.) I am reassured by the ER that he is fine, but I spend my night tossing and turning worried that a) he is not fine and b) that there will be blue Powerade potatoes projectiled into my hair.

- Jet is ordered one "total down day" where he is not allowed to watch TV, play video games, read, do school work, or play outside. This is basically a death sentence for a 9 year old boy. We spend the day trying to stay busy, but remain mostly bored. (Though, I won't lie. I sort of adored the time - no distractions, lots of conversations, and a nap!!!)

- Deco pukes. Because. WHY NOT?! On the rug, obviously not the hardwoods. That would be too easy.

- My feet start doing that cute "swelling" thing. If you know me, you know that with Navy my feet were actually hippo feet on loan. THIS IS DEFCOM 5; THIS IS NOT A DRILL. I sent a picture to Johnny. He wrote me back, "Gross". I still have 8 weeks left. <insert hippo sound here>

- Jet and Navy take a bath. Navy keeps saying "poo poo" - I disregard this warning, mostly because I must be stupid. Navy poops in the bathtub. Tub turds. Much like Deco's barf, my response is more one of expectation than shock. Because OF COURSE SHE POOPED IN THE BATHTUB.

- Navy poops another 3 times this day, the last one (thankfully not in a bathtub) runs down her leg. We are Face Timing Daddy for this ordeal. He gets home tomorrow. He wishes us luck.

I can't decide if my life is a circus, a zoo, a sitcom, or a nightmare. Maybe it is a mixture of all of the above. But I'm counting my blessings, too. We are so close to being permanently reunited. We are days away from meeting our newest member. We have a solid buyer for this house (sorry I called you a liar, it was a bad day!) and a beautiful new home to call ours when we get there. Everybody is safe, healthy, and sane. (Except me.) Things are okay. Life is crazy, but I at least I can see the comedy. For now. We still have a few hours till Daddy gets home. (Say a prayer for us, okay?)

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Pity Party, Table for 1.5

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