The crap (sometimes literal) is hitting the having-it-all fan around here, you guys. I went to Tar-jay this morning because we were out of all of our absorbent materials--Mary diapers, James diapers, and nursing pads--and I needed some purple polka dot skinny jeans for Mary and also some Advil because I pop those things like M&Ms these days. And I wanted to pick up some goodies for my sister and the kids needed (would perish without) orange juice and Pirate's Booty.
And so we took care of all that and I was exhausted and ready for bed and it was only ten o'clock in the morning.
I set Wes and James up with some Pirate's Booty and OJ at the table (mmmm lunch) and headed upstairs with Mary to take a shower and get ready for work. And walked into the Dante's freaking Inferno of laundry neglect and despair, also known as Our Master Bedroom.
I'm not sure how I managed to forget the four baskets of clothes sitting on the floor. Or the unmade bed. Or the nursing pads flung willy-nilly around the room like someone was playing the world's grossest game of cornhole.
The blinds were also down, which really enhanced the flop house vibe I had going in there.
But what really sent me over the top was the unflushed (not by me) toilet WITH THE SEAT UP and the adjacent overfull trash can and the bathroom counter covered in sticky blue toothpaste.
(Why is there sticky blue Spiderman toothpaste all over MY bathroom counter, you might want to know? Because the Situational Awareness Brothers cannot possibly brush their teeth in their bathroom without making enough noise to wake up not only Mary, but also the neighbor's children and children in Oklahoma)
I decided the best way to handle the pounding, pressure-y, explod-a-rific sensation in my head was to email Ryan a carefully thought out and professionally worded email at work.
"We need a housekeeper. This is gross."
Because what every hardworking man wants is to be hassled about taking out the trash at the same moment he is also likely getting hassled by his boss.
I aim to please.
After my shower Mary was relatively content in her bouncer, so like the completely not mentally ill person I am, I emptied all the trash cans and cleaned all the toilets in my bra and undies.
During this time Wes and James drank two quarts of orange juice and ate an entire bag of Pirate's Booty. I am so proud of their independence.
Finally I put on my skirt and top and then I made the bed and finally threw out all the extra mesh underpants from the hospital that have been living on my bedroom floor for eight weeks. It's good we saved those.
By then I had twenty minutes before go-time, so I washed the bottles, filled the bottles, cleaned up breakfast and "lunch", gathered my work items from all over the house, nursed Mary, popped some Advil, and found my shoes.
When I got to work I fed Mary the second side and hastily jotted down some things I wanted to review before starting today's lecture. Except later when I looked down at the list, standing in front of my class, chalk in hand, it did not say "Major ocean basins, marginal seas, passive vs. active continental margins" it said "Mary leggings, wipes, size 1 diapers, orange juice, Advil."
I win multitasking.
After class I received Ryan's response to my thoughtful email: "OK". Subtext: "Is there anything sharp where you are? Because I am concerned."
AND THEN I was out in the hall having a conversation about some upcoming meetings with my department chair when Mary made a noise that sounded like a garbage disposal unclogging itself. My plan was to keep talking like nothing had happened, you know, like LOOK AT ME BEING ALL PROFESSIONAL WITH MAH GASSY BABY ON MY HIP!", but a split second after the garbage disposal noise there was a loud SPLAT!! as what I assume to be a fairly large volume of spitup hit the floor behind me.
And that is how you know it is time to go home and put your stretchy pants back on.