It’s 1:17am, and nothing says, “Happy Early Birthday, Mom!” like boys whizzing in the middle of the night in strange places.
You know, there’s a lot of tough jobs we’d rather not do, but have to do as parents.
Clean up puke? Check.
Have the sex talk? Check.
Wipe up boy’s pee from behind the toilet? Check.
I could go on.
No one ever said this job was easy, and no one especially said that it wasn’t going to be filled with surprises.
Our washer and dryer are relatively silent, anyway, so I didn’t see a need in keeping the door on it’s hinges. But right now, at 1:23am, I am wishing like HELL that I’d kept that damn door on.
My normally soft noised washer is busy banging away, swishing and spraying and swirling every pair of shoes we own that were in our hall closet.
When my children get up tomorrow, and want to go outside, they won’t be able to.
Why, you ask? Why can’t they go outside, and why are you doing laundry in the middle of the night? So glad you asked. That IS the million dollar question after all.
Because my eight-year-old woke up moments ago and hosed the goddamn hall closet down like a dang fire-house.
Words I never thought I’d ever hear myself say, “Babe, you have to get up and help me. Our son sleptwalk over to the closet and peed all over everyone’s shoes.”
I know my husband must’ve thought he was being punked, but it’s true. The damn floor of our coat closet was covered in our son’s piss.
I know sleepwalking happens, I used to do it as an older kid. But this? What the hell is this, sleepwalk pissing?
We’ve caught him a few times woozily steering himself in the wrong direction to use the restroom in the middle of the night. My spidey senses have gone off before, waking me in the in the nick of time, catching him about to unleash on the garage door, or wall, or whatever, and we’ve redirected his teeny butt to the bathroom to properly hose the place in there.
I spent the better part of my Saturday the other day pissed off at every man-card carrying member of this family; those with weiners that can’t hit a toilet to save their damn life, and make me have to get up under a toilet to whip up old whizz.
It ain’t pretty, this parenting job. Nothing glamorous about bathroom spray, whizz-wiping, and cursing at weiners with a towel in hand.
BUT AT LEAST THE BATHROOM IS TILED, YO!
Our closet has CARPET. AND SHOES. Kid hosed my shoes! And everyone’s shoes! We have NO shoes to wear! OMG!
The noise was deafening. As soon as I heard what sounded like a leak in the ceiling, I sprung up. And, after discovering what it was, I realized I couldn’t do it alone, so I woke up my poor husband, my son’s whizzing ass up, too. “Pal, you need to get up and help us, this is YOUR fault.”
He looked like I shot his puppy. Nuh uh, pal. If I have to manhandle pee-drenched shoes, you are going to help me, dude. It’s your weiner’s fault.
And so, away in the louder-than-I’d-like laundry room without a door are about 10-ish pairs of shoes, swirling away in water and detergent, clunking around loudly at (now) 1:30am, not allowing me to sleep, and so here I sit to recollect for you this crazy, parenting-type event.
My kid, he’s back to sleep. My none-too-thrilled husband, he’s also back to sleep. But this mom, who has grown to be quite the light sleeper in all her years being a mom, has to wait until the frackin’ laundry is done before she can even think of closing her eyes.
My kids’ playtime and mom’s sanity depends upon their ability to go outside on their time off from school to play with their friends.
(Side note: There will be ohsoverymuch coffee made for THIS tired mom in the morning.)
At least we’ll all have sparkling clean shoes to wear tomorrow, right? Right?!
(Maybe those sparkly clean shoes will help deter folks from noticing my hellacious bags under my eyes. Ya think!?)
