I remember when I first started this blog--back when I loved eggs--I wondered if I'd truly be able to write something every day. What happened yesterday just proved, I may never run out of material.
Yesterday morning, as the Scribe got ready for school, I heard her singing into the mirror. "I always get in-to trou-ble. It's al-ways me. No one else gets in-to trou-ble. No one, they pick on me."
I cleared my throat. "You are not the only one who gets in trouble."
"Fine then name one other person who's been acting bad around here."
"Your brother . . . when he spilled milk all over the kitchen floor."
"Are you kidding? You laughed about that. He didn't get in trouble."
"Well what about the time your sister was tardy forty-one times?"
"Everyone's been tardy." She took a breath. "I do things that no one else does and I always get caught. Just once . . . I want something crazy to happen and I want to be surprised when it's not my fault."
I should have known something horrible brewed in the future; she'd practically uttered a curse into the bathroom air and that's something you never do. Bathroom curses are THE WORST! Sometimes they lead to accidental pregnancies. Trust me, that happened to a friend of mine.
"Just get ready for school. We'll talk about this tonight." I walked down the hall and yelled, "Oh and no more pity-me songs!"
The day went fine, other than when The Zombie Elf found my sugar and the baby popped four teeth all in one day.
When The Scribe and The Hippie got home, I told them they needed to clean their rooms. "They're so bad, I almost got lost in one this morning. And don't just shove stuff in your closets. I want you to really clean today." I love how you have to be so direct with kids--they're literal creatures--really they are. That's when I hopped into the shower. I love the shower, it's this amazing little place where I can actually tell the children I can't come out. It's my ten minutes of space. But my freedom was short-lived yesterday--TWO MINUTES too short--I nearly died.
"Mom," The Scribe yelled. "There's something really stinky in my closet!"
I washed the conditioner from my hair, sopped from the bathroom, then threw on a shirt and those Snoopy pants I love. "What the . . . " I said while I towel-dried my hair and walked into her room. She wasn't kidding. It was the most horrible thing I've ever smelled and that's saying a lot since I've been sprayed by a skunk once.
I don't want to get into that embarrassing skunk story (it's actually in the book I'm getting published) let's just say I thought it would be great to have a funeral for a skunk--that wasn't dead. Little Jerk!
So anyway, the smell was bad. I walked into The Scribe's room, but The Hippie was no where to be seen. "Where's your sister?"
"I don't know," The Scribe said. "She smelled my closet, went white and disappeared like a ghost."
"Great . . . that is just great." So without further complications, we dug through the toys in the closet. It wasn't long until the smell got so bad, so disgusting, I had to pinch my nose. "Whad in the woorld is thad smell?" I sounded like an alien, a puked-out, nose-less alien.
"I can'd dell," The Scribe said, holding her dainty nose too. "But I thind id's cooming from thdis." She held up a tiny flower pot and I suddenly knew what had happened.
"Whad the Hell! Why does this sduff always happen around here?" I was upset, despite the fact that I sounded like an idiot. I held the flower pot far away and glared at it. The Hippie, that sweet, innocent child who likes to be tardy on purpose, had brought that pot home several weeks ago. She'd been so excited because they'd planted herbs at school. I thought about the pot and realized she'd brought it home just before The Scribe told a bunch of children to bury eggs in the back yard! I remembered The Hippie being upset her herbs never grew. I remembered her sweet, tear-filled face the day she told me about it!
Do you remember that book Where The Wild Things Are? Well I felt like the main character in that book when he's standing in that jungle-bedroom of his, abandoned by his own family. Instead of jumping on a boat and finding the Wild Things, I stared at the pot and my curiosity wouldn't be tamed. I shoved my hand into the yucky dirt, fought with it, grappled amongst its yuckiness, until I found a hard object and pulled it out. The Scribe and I gasped. The smell had gotten even worse. In my hand, rested something far worse than brimstone. It smelled worse than death on a weekend or poo that's marinated in its own sick juices. I'm here to tell you Templeton (from Charlotte's Web) is a furry idiot. Because rotten eggs suck!
"No one else gets in-to trou-ble. No one, they pick on me." I should have been the one singing that song earlier. I ran to the outside garbage then, thinking about how a rotten egg will stink even if the shell isn't broken, I said, "My life is one fat ball of trouble!"
"Excuse me?" someone said from the street at my back.
I turned around, swiveled suddenly worried because I knew that voice! Behind me stood--The Dog Lady--that creepy Disney-villian-ish woman who wants to be my friend!
I know it's horrible, but I thought of Mall Rats. I wanted to shake her hand because I swear she's the one who's been letting my darling, lump dog out. Because of that woman I've donated hundreds of dollars to the animal shelter and I hate animal shelters! It would have been nice to wipe some rotten egg juice on her. But instead of shaking her hand, or being mean, I waved. I didn't smile, or anything, that pulls weirdos in like flies to poo. So, I just waved in a "move along" kind of way because I didn't want to have a "show down" with her while egg juice stained my hands.
When I got back inside and washed my hands, I found the baby and The Zombie Elf eating sugar and playing with the stinking toys that later ended up in the garbage too. I found The Scribe washing her hands for the thousandth time. She sang a new song in the mirror, "I didn't get in trouble. It will not be me. My sister pulled a 'no-no.' How sad she's going to be."
"Knock it off," I yelled. "Where is your sister anyway?"
"Doooon't knooow," The Scribe sang and I heard a small voice whimpering from The Hippie's room.
The Hippie's curly blond hair stuck out from under the bed. "Honey. Honey, why did you bury an egg?"
"I don't want to be in trouble."
"Then why did you bury that egg?"
She came out from under the bed. "Because," Sniff, "I wanted an," Sniff Sniff Sniff, "egg tree. I can't grow anything. Everyone in my class planted herbs and all of their plants grew."
She fell into my arms and I patted her. "We'll plant something awesome. I promise it will grow, but no more planting eggs!"
She sniffed again, but this time it was a different type of sniff. "Mama? You smell really bad. Was that egg a bad one? My teacher said that might happen, but I didn't think they could smell this bad."
"Neither did I."
Everyone got a baking soda bath after that. It took FOREVER to get the smell out, but at least we got it out. I put my cell phone in a bowl of baking soda, I hope it will still work AND smell better when I test it out this morning; otherwise I'll be getting a mocha AND a new phone today--an orange one this time.
As I kissed the children and put them to bed, The Scribe looked up at me and said, "Mom, I've never been allergic to something before. It's kind of neat."
"What? What are you allergic to?" I asked.
"Rotty eggs. My body doesn't like those at all. They make me itch."