Can you hear that?
It’s the sound of the scant amount of dignity I have left.
It’s crying out for HELP!
It’s making a sound like un-manicured nails being drug down a chalkboard, screeching, hanging on. . .valiantly fighting for life. . .trying not to slip away. . .as my husband and child try to completely snuff it out.
Saturday, I spent most of the morning cleaning and cooking. We had company coming later that day and Grandpa was coming the following morning to hang out with Mac while Chris and I did a 7 mile hike through some nearly birdless portion of beautiful Maryland countryside for the annual Christmas Bird Count.
As you might imagine, I don’t don my finest garb for toilet scrubbing. I have a supply of ratty old T-shirts, which I must confess get worn even when I’m not on tidy bowl patrol.
Saturday morning was no exception. I was sporting a wretched gray V-neck T and some equally unattractive running shorts. I had been awake since 5:30AM and despite the fact that I was going full throttle all morning, by about 10:30, it was becoming readily apparent I was going to need assistance to morph my To-Do’s into To-Done’s.
Chris offered to take Mac somewhere for a bit before his nap so I could finish up. I was happy for the offer, and suggested they keep it simple and head to the playground at the park.
I packed the stroller with Chris’ binoculars, his field guide, a blanket and snacks for Mac (including the all important cookie we use to bribe him to get back in the stroller after he’s done at the playground).
I was rather anxious to get them the hell out of the house as I had a lot of things to knock out before Mac took his nap.
Of course, Mac had different plans.
Apparently whatever those plans were, they did NOT involve clothes.
He went into full meltdown mode as Chris and I attempted to dress him. He thrashed around and his face was red, and he didn’t want distracted or comforted. And the crying and screaming. . .
Eventually we got him clothed and calmed down.
I took his stroller to the front door and Chris followed behind me holding Mac.
We went outside and Chris placed him in the stroller.
Then Chris looks at his own finger.
“What is this?”
I bent down from the top of the stoop, squinting, not able to see what the problem is.
“It’s snot. . .and a booger!” Chris exclaims.
I’m entirely too fed up and busy to offer to go back in the house for a tissue.
“It’s no big deal. The little guy was upset. He’s not sick or anything.” I say as I stand up, hand on the door, ready to slam it shut on them. GET OUT ALREADY!!!
I make the mistake of looking Chris in the eye.
“Well?” he says, his doe eyes looking hopeful. . .expectant. . .
“What?” I ask sharply. “Well, what?”
“Is that a dirty old T-shirt you are wearing?”
Um. Duh. Do I own any other kind?
“Can I wipe it on your shirt?”
“Wipe it on your own shirt,” I snort at him.
To which Chris responds, “But my sweater is cashmere.”
And I swear I saw my dignity wave a white flag as I leaned down so he could wipe the offending snot off his finger and onto the bottom hem of my shirt. . .