Last Tuesday night at our house was almost like a cartoon. Seriously, it couldn’t have been more comically disastrous if I had tried. (Okay, it probably could have, but it was still fairly epic.)
To set the stage, you have to keep in mind that BIT had had a bad night Monday and had been up crying, off and on, from 2:45 to 4:15. Thus, I was up at 2:45 and, finding myself unable to sleep when she finally settled down, just got out of bed and went downstairs. So I’m running on about 4 ½ hours of sleep. And I don’t tolerate sleep deprivation very well.
After a crazy hectic day at work, I come home and help the DreadBrewer do dinner with BIT and LB. BIT gets off to bed around 6:30 without incident, which is good since I’m frustrated and tired and ready to be done for the day.
At 7:20, we tell the Littlest Brewster that she needs to clean up her toys before bath time. She’s a total turd about it and earns herself a trip to time out. After a few minutes, I go over and we have a bit of a chat about why she’s in time out and how she’s going to be a good girl and clean up now. As she’s walking down the hallway to her
pile of crap toys she needs to clean up, I see a stray toy and bend over to get it. Coming up, I smack my head into the chair rail hard enough to see stars. And proceed to holler something along the lines of “sweet baby fudge fudgerson!”
The Littlest Brewster is staring at me, wide eyed, and I’m sort of dancing around in pain when I hear a splash. A big splash.
I go into the kitchen to find that Ethan, in his quest for sustenance (since we’re obviously starving him), has knocked over LB’s full cup of milk that was left on the table after dinner.
At which point I yell something like “Oh for crying out loud!” at the top of my lungs. The Littlest Brewster is continuing with the whole wide-eyed staring thing, which is super helpful.
I grab a towel and stomp over to the milk to wipe it up, still rubbing my abused head, swipe at it a few times, and decide I need the sponge. So I stomp my way over to the sink.
And proceed to step straight into a giant puddle of water that the DreadBrewer has unknowingly left on the floor. (Draining broccoli is hard and complicated, you know.)
I may have reverted to my favorite “Sweet mary mother of jiminy jominy” at this point.
I squelch back to the puddle of milk and proceed to start cleaning it up, only to look over and realize that I’m face to face with a big puddle of cat vomit. (Thanks, Ethan.)
By now, I’ve just devolved into making unintelligible angry noises under my breath.
Everything gets cleaned up and the Littlest Brewster gets bathed and brushed and put to bed. I go back into her room to kiss her one last time before the DreadBrewer does his final story and cuddle and what is she doing?
Licking something that she calls “the sticky” off of her fingers.
That she has discovered between her mattress and the bed frame.
DB comes in and we proceed to have a firm discussion with her about how we do NOT eat random things that we find under our mattress, no matter how delicious they may appear. Upon further investigation, we decide that “the sticky” is left over from an incident with Zarbee’s a few weeks ago where I may have spilled some on the bed frame.
Needless to say, I then proceeded to have an extremely large glass of wine in an extremely hot bubble bath.