Sundays evenings are pretty tough around here. On the one had they are good because Nelson is usually home and that means an extra set of hands to help with the kids. But, Sundays are also the day we have to do all the stuff we didn't get done during the rest of the week - left over errands, grass cutting, loads of housework - and the kids are usually extra amped up after two days of fun with both parents, or in the case of this weekend, grandparents.
That was just a little groundwork for my story. It's Sunday, around 5pm. This kids are amped up. Nelson does not feel well. I have to make dinner. The grass needs to be cut. Nelson says, " I need to cut grass."
"Right now? At 5 o'clock? I need to make dinner."
"Well it needs to be cut. I'll just do the front and side yard."
Okay. So. I'm a bit annoyed by this. This grass cutting at 5pm. The boys and I had just returned from two hours out of the house. I left the house with BOTH boys specifically so Nelson could have some time to himself to rest because he was not feeling well. But now he feels well enough to cut grass? Because when the boys and I walked in the door and I asked how he was feeling he responded, "No better."
I'm also a bit annoyed because I really enjoy cooking and I only get maybe two days a week where I can cook dinner without my children trying to crawl up my ass. They are usually right there in my tiny kitchen with me. Miles jams himself between me and the counter demanding to be held and Oscar alternately dumps giant bags of cars and/or trains on the floor and hangs off the back of my pants begging for a snack. It sucks.
When Nelson is home, the kids still wander in the kitchen but Nelson is usually hot on their heels and will bring them back to the living room where he will distract them until I'm finished with dinner. This time is blissful to me. I love it.
Whatever, I agreed to the grass cutting because he was just going to do the front and side yards, which take around 20 minutes. If he does the back yard, that's another 30 minutes.
So, I decided to go ahead and start dinner because it's a pretty quick meal and will be nearly done by the time Nelson is finished with the grass. I figured he'd finish at the tail end of my cooking and come in a sweep up the kids so I would have a few minutes to clean up and put on the finishing touches.
The pot is simmering and the sauce is thickening. Oscar is begging for a juice box or a snack or, really, my attention. Miles is hanging off my legs. I'm tripping over matchbox cars. It's been nearly 30 minutes, where the heck is my husband? I look out the kitchen window and notice he's cutting the backyard. What?
Now, this is not the first time this has happened, that Nelson has said he will only do the front and side yards but instead just cuts the whole thing. Yes, the grass needed to be cut but he told me he'd be back in to help me with the kids. I was counting on that. That is what we agreed upon. I'm annoyed. I also can't help but thinking how every time Nelson does something like this, all hell tends to break loose.
I scoop up Miles and I notice he's warm. He'd been up with a fever the night before and upon reflection, he was even whinier and more clingy than usual.
"Come on, Oscar. We're going upstairs to check Miles' temperature."
I start up the stairs and Oscar is behind me. He's slow because his legs are shorter than mine and because he's a preschooler and those kids are slow as molasses when you need them to do something. Anyways, Oscar is lagging behind but I don't really care about that. He's coming. He'll get up the stairs eventually.
I undress the baby and check his temp. 101.3. His diaper is soggy and I don't have a clean one upstairs, so I just give him some ibuprofen and figure I'll diaper him downstairs. Meanwhile, Oscar finally arrives upstairs.
"Momma, I have lotion on my shoes."
I look and he does indeed have something on his shoes.
"Oscar what is that on your shoes."
"I don't think so. What is it."
"I don't know."
Then, I smell it. And it smells lovely. And expensive. Like the salon shampoo I bought the previous day.
"Oscar. What did you do?"
"That is not lotion. That is Momma's shampoo. Did you squeeze it or did you dump it."
"No. Don't tell me 'nothing." I can see it all over you! What. Did. You. Do."
"I dumped it."
I follow his sticky shoe prints and find that, yes, he did indeed dump it. Down the stairs. He unscrewed the cover and dumped my expensive shampoo down the stairs.
I carefully bring Miles down the stairs and diaper him. I check dinner and turn off the stove. Then, I spend ten minutes trying to get very thick, expensive shampoo off of my wooden stairs, all the while my feverish toddler whines mercilessly. Have you ever tried to clean shampoo off wooden stairs? Have you? It takes FOREVER. I was very busy. And also head explodey because of the whining.
So busy was I that I fail to notice Oscar hadn't reappeared.
"Oscar? Oscar, where are you?"
"Oscar, you always answer Momma. Where. Are. You?"
"Upstairs. With the paint."
"What?! What paint?"
Luckily it was just bathtub paint, totally washable.
Oscar agrees to come downstairs after I promise he can have the bathtub paints in his bath after dinner.
Nelson came in.
"Hey, how's it going?"
"You know. Terrible. Miles has a fever and Oscar dumped my shampoo down the stairs and go into the bathtub paint and dinner has been ready for fifteen minutes."
"Well, lets eat."
"I'll do the baths tonight."
"Great. Oscar gets his paints."
Have fun with that, Dad.