Sunday, September 25, 2011

Doctor Jones and a Tiny Bit of Fuss

I thought it would be a great day, 
AND THEN I WOKE UP.
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    Doctor Jones is my twenty-month-old girl.  She is fun and sweet, sassy, yet still girly.  If I picked a superpower for that kid, it would be her happiness--she's ALWAYS smiling.  She ignites any room with joy.  Her smiles set everyone giggling.  People find themselves wanting to be around her, not only since she's a baby, but because she's fun.
    So, when "baby sunshine" went down for a nap yesterday, the house practically cried in darkness.  (I should never let Doctor Jones sleep!)  Gloomy clouds swirled above, raining on our parade.  The Scribe and The Hippie fought.  Our puppy had to go potty EVERY TWO SECONDS!  The Zombie Elf ran around like his butt was on fire.  And all I wanted to do was wake up Doctor Jones and experience the peace she brings!  
    But my baby takes the longest naps--cryogenically frozen--and she thaws out for hours.   
    On a side note:  Maybe that's the key to her happiness.  Maybe we should all sleep like we're frozen.
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    Three hours of nap-time passed, and when I finally heard the baby singing "Mama" and sending darling noises from her room, a deeper catastrophe struck.  The Zombie Elf spit an egg yolk on the carpet.  Luna, the dog, ate it and then peed to mark the place she'd eaten from.  (Sometimes dogs and men make no sense.)  The Scribe and Hippie bawled about who saw what first and who might have prevented the egg crime.  Then the fight escalated to something about missing lunch money and the theft of a century.
    I cleaned then and as I did, the dog pooped across the room.  I tried to warn The Scribe but she was too busy yelling at The Hippie to notice she was walking backwards, toward a pile of steaming manure.
    "Don't . . . step back!"
    "I couldn't stop the egg!" The Scribe yelled at The Hippie.  "I told you.  It was too fast.  But that's not the problem.  You're the one who lost all your lunch money."
    "Who cares about the egg or money," I said.  "There's a pile of--"
    I cringed as her foot sloshed into the mound.
    "Poooooo--ooooo," I finished, low on batteries.
    All that happened in a matter of twenty minutes when the baby changed from darling-pumpkin setting to, kill-on-sight mode.  She stopped singing in her crib and wailed, "MA! MA!  MA! MA!" like one of those monster dolls who comes to life at night.
    "I'm coming," I sang, pretending I was Snow White since that usually makes me feel better even though I don't know any dwarfs.
    But no matter how hard I tried, there was no time to save the wailing bundle of sunshine upstairs.  I had to disinfect a double F, the worst thing ever . . . a feces foot--YUCK!

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    "You," I yelled to The Hippie, "watch the dog . . . And YOU," I motioned to The Scribe, "go to the bathtub . . . And you little zombie, DO NOT TOUCH THE DOG POOP!"
    After wearing a gas mask, plastic gloves and a hair net, I almost died from scrubbing feet and cleaning carpets forever.   I looked like a sewer rat and still I dreamed that maybe someday Cade will buy me a nice dress and take me to a fancy restaurant where violins play and dogs don't know how to poop.
    Through many Cinderella-like daydreams and LOTS of scrubbing, I finally did save the day.  My chest bloated with pride.  I felt like a true superhero, one who faces danger and still adverts it!
    "MA! MA!" the baby wailed again.  I ran then to rescue Doctor Jones and tell her about my awesomeness.  I pulled off the hairnet and shook out my locks like a vidal sassoon model. 
    I opened the door, and looked through.  But that's when I had another thing coming.   
    Doctor Jones's hand gripped the crib.  Her chubby knuckles turned white.  "MA MA," she reprimanded, not happy at all.
    "Yes, Princess!  I just made it through a war and can you believe it . . . I'm still alive.  I'm sorry it took so long, but I'm here, Baby and I'm still standing!"
    Her eyebrows dipped so low they touched her eyelashes.  Although anger filled her movements, she did hold her arms wide as if wanting a hug.
    So I picked her up in my arms, bounced her in front of me and smiled.  "I love you.  I love you so much."
    She puckered her lips, then cocked back her hands and slapped both of my cheeks at the same time.  All the air flew from my face.  Indiana Jones can pack one helluva punch. 
    "Mama.  No!  No!"  She shook her head.  "NO! NO!"  She suddenly smiled.  "K?"
   My cheeks hurt.  I'd cleaned up poo, worn a gas mask (well almost), become a vidal sassoon model and then been schooled by a one-year-old.  But my baby was awake and as we walked from the room, she laughed at my reddening face.
    The sun came out, my children forgot how to fight and spit eggs; the dog stopped pooping everywhere, and I figured maybe someday Cade will buy me a nice dress.  (hint hint)
    All in all, it had been a good nap-time.  I learned that even the bad times can turn fun; they just make the good times that much better.