Okay, we will pick up where we left off discussing a few of my NOT favorite things.
I don't like to dwell on the negative like this, but sometimes my Julie Andrews persona just gets fed up, and if I have to sing about kittens and rainbows one more second I might combust. So bear with me, readers, for joy comes in the morning.
If you missed it, catch yourself up so you can grasp the full impact of the following turn of events.
About an hour after the whole vomit covered child and vacuuming out of the bathtub, I was still buried in laundry which needed immediate attention.
This leads me to my regular conversation with myself that all mothers really should have commercial sized washers and dryers. The sheer volume of the laundry we must do each week necessitates it, and that's when all your kids are healthy. You throw a sick one in the mix and you may as well kiss your "free" time good-bye for a few hours til everything's been washed and dried.
(Oh, and having a child who just cannot seem to make it through the day without wetting her pants adds to the laundry pile as well. It's kind of become a problem around here. The child, not the laundry.)
Anyway, because I had to wash a set of sheets, a blanket, a comforter, bath towels (from the dog's bath...I'm telling you, if you missed Part 1, you really need to see it), and my daughter's pajamas, I had to do multiple loads. I started with the biggest items first since they'd take the longest. This left the most beloved pair of Disney princess pajamas ever in existence to be left in a pile of dirty clothes on the floor in the laundry room.
Critical mistake. No, no, make that "FATAL" mistake.
I made my way back to the laundry room to place the first load into the dryer and get the second load started.
And that's when I found it. The grizzly, horribly senseless crime scene. It's the one which will stick with me in my mind's eye for the rest of my life. Horrendous. Burned into my memory forever. I live with the haunting remembrances every day.
There, laying in a jumbled heap on the floor, lay the remains of my three-year-old's prized pajamas. So precious to her are these pajamas, in fact, that she named them "Dancing", because they are her very favorite pajamas for twirling and waltzing around the room. I have dug these pjs out of the dirty hamper many times to prevent WWIII, I have let her wear them still slightly damp because the dryer wasn't quite finished by bedtime, I've ever let her wear them out in public. She REALLY loves these pajamas. In fact, love doesn't quite describe the depth of her affection. I have seriously considered the fact that if she keeps this up she could be on TLC's "My Strange Obsession" reality show one day.
The pajamas have been ripped to shreds. A shoulder is missing. A ruffle has been violently removed from the bottom hem. Cinderella no longer has a face, and poor Sleeping Beauty has been permanently put to sleep in such a way that no kiss will ever reawaken her.
It had just been too much for him, you see. I had left the laundry room door cracked and he had found his dream there within his reach. Pajamas with vomit on them, just ready and waiting to be devoured.
Him? Who would do such a thing?
Oh, surely, you can guess by now.
The one, the only, Hank Webber, Jr.
a.k.a. "My Sanctification" (this would be much funnier to you if you know what that word means...really...wikipedia it)
This was the straw which broke the camel's back (and yes, I realize this means I'm calling myself a camel, but whatever).
You see, this was the SECOND pair of her favorite pajamas "my sanctification" had ripped to shreds in the last three days. The other victim was her polka dot gown she named "Bow". If "Dancing" was ever unavailable, she would consent to wear "Bow" without too much of a fight.
I think I had a kind of out of body experience in that moment of discovery in my laundry room. I could see myself there, studying the scene before me, and it was almost like a black smoke began rising from my feet, filling the laundry room and carrying me down the hall to my bedroom.
You see, readers, my wonderful, kind, sweet husband was in our room, peacefully and contentedly watching t.v. And I do mean that, he really is wonderful, kind, and sweet. I love him.
But he also happens to be the one who brought "my sanctification" into this home.
I started out fairly calm. I explained to him that he would have the honor of informing our youngest that her reason for living was gone. Her Dancing had died. And it had been a cruel death it had suffered.
I also informed him that he would be the one to take her shopping to try to find something to replace it, something to ease her grief and prevent future breakdowns. I was frankly fearful she just might pass out from grief when she received the news, so he must break it to her gently.
But then...just as I was concluding my informative speech, in walked the dog. He happily trotted into the bathroom, where he began without hesitation nosing through the trash and found a pull-up.
For the second time that night, I thought it was a good thing I did not have a gun.
So instead of violence, I retrieved my pillows, marched myself down to the guest room, and left the two of them together to bond.
So, let's recap, shall we?
1. sick child throws up everywhere and needs an immediate bath
2. bathtub covered in dog hair
3. must vacuum out tub while sick child stands shivering in bathroom
4. dog eats two of her favorite pajamas
5. dog searches for pull-ups in the trash
6. mom wonders if murdering a dog would go on her permanent record
7. mom hears girls giggling and playing with said dog the next morning, easing her fury and reminding her of why she keeps this creature in the first place
8. mom eats chocolate...for breakfast.
Believe it or not, there is a part 3 to this story. After that, we shall take a break from the subject of my beloved canine. My blood pressure can't take it.