Caught in the Ick

I feel like I've been through the wringer this week.

I've done load after load of emergency laundry.  I really hate emergency laundry.  Some unfortunate--likely disgusting--event occurs, making you want to just hightail it in the other direction.  But can you?  No.  Oh, no.  Instead, you have to get elbow-deep in the ick, armed only with your best stain remover.  You must find the ick, examine the ick, scrub the ick, and soak the ick.  All the while, covered in the ick and thinking about the ick.  Wouldn't you agree it's kind of awful?

But I guess there's also the flip side.  The sort of empowering part.  Like you are totally in the trenches, fighting the good fight, protecting you family, showing that ick who's boss.  Dare I say it can be gratifying? 

Maybe that's the stain remover fumes talking. 

Anyway, we've had a lot of emergency laundry as of late.  And emergency group baths.  And emergency cleanings of the sofa.  And the floors.  And the tub.

I've alternated between my yoga pants and my robe.  Little Guy has begun to have serious anxiety if I'm not wearing my glasses.  We've all had poop on our feet at one time or another this week.

The boys have alternated between fitful sleeping, fussiness, and whining. 

I made dinner mid-day yesterday, because I feared I'd be too tired to make it at night.  Then, once the Mister got home, I was too tired to even serve it.

It's been a pleasure cruise around here. 

The refrigerator's low.  We're out of bread.  Going to the grocery store in this city, with our parking situation, with two babies in tow is near to impossible.  Really, it's the getting the groceries and the babies all back up to the apartment that's the impossible part.  Ordering groceries to be delivered tacks a good $25 onto the bill.  I think it's worth it today.

I fold laudry and sweet, precious, wanting-to-help hands jumble it all up before it makes it to the intended destination.  I thank him for his help and fold it up again. 

But I'm not as patient when the baby's howling to be fed and I'm trying to get done helping with the pottying and he wants to flush the toilet--must be the one to flush the toilet--and he flushes the handle a millimeter at a time, so that a full flush takes at least ten seconds to achieve.  Oh, and there's likely a pause somewhere in there to adjust the positions of the seat and lid, because he has very specific ways in which he likes to view the toilet water emptying.  Oh, I struggle.  I struggle to be kind and gentle and unhurried, but also to be fair to little brother, who sometimes gets the short end of the stick, just because he can't yet cause as much trouble.

And thank goodness for that.

I let Little Guy play in the sink this morning and asked that he be sure not to splash the phone.  Are you surprised that I soon caught sight of the phone being held under the faucet?  Beware the power of suggestion, folks.

I vacuumed this morning and not two minutes later found Cheerios spilled all over the living room floor. But at least I hadn't put the vacuum away.

Potty training has revealed a new issue.  It seems Little Guy's (size 18 month) pants were only being kept up by his diaper.  Now, they're all hanging low.  Perhaps we'll go in for suspenders.  That is, if we ever leave the house again.

It's just one of those days.  On repeat.

And, really...there's so many other things I could tell you about this week.  That each night, Little Guy clasps his hands together, squeezes his eyes shut, and prays for his great-grandmother to be well enough to leave the hospital.  That Buddy Boy rolls across the floor with purpose now, so I put him down in one spot and find him in a whole 'nother.  That at the moment, Little Guy likes to give me a long-winded stories about the games he plays and conclude with, "Show you, Mommy, show you." and then give the world's cutest demonstration.  That Buddy Boy chuckles and giggles like no other when his brother comes to talk to him.  That the Mister rescues me again and again, not even getting his suit coat off before he's dealing with babies.  There's plenty of good.

It's just hard when you feel caught in the ick.