There are some days when you are feeding a sweaty baby on your couch, exhausted from two weeks of church camp chaos, and your kid is driving his new-to-him remote controlled airplane all around the kitchen, around and around and around, and it's easy and calm and you think "This is nice."
But then the big kid in the kitchen exclaims "OH MAN!!" and asks you to get him a towel.
And you snap out of the haze for long enough to ask "What do you need a towel for?" still not lifting your head off the back of the couch or unhooking the now-dozing baby.
And he replies "The airplane drove in the THROW UP!"
And you sort of vaguely remember the baby hurling over the side of the high chair, under the table. Good grief, when was that? Yesterday? The day before that?
And then you remember that when it happened you made a mental note to wipe it up, but then you were distracted by some other emergency involving a child-sized guitar and a little brother's head or maybe by the sound of a tiny fist pounding the side of the TV to make the signal come in better, or maybe a phone call from a friend or a trip to the bathroom or the "beep" of the coffeemaker.
And you wonder how the big kid knew there was throw up on the floor and you didn't.
And then you remember that you live in a frat house now, and no amount of matching bathroom rugs and hand towels and well-balanced meals will change that.
And you vow to get more rest and maybe put some higher-wattage bulbs in the kitchen.