Today has been quite... trying. For my soul. My patience. My sanity. My caffeine levels.
Things started off fairly well. Alarm went off at the crack of dawn. I got up, rustled my two oldest children out of bed and did the herding cats routine to get them ready for school.
I then proceeded to rustle The Husband up by siccing the three-year-old on him.
Lunches packed, homework gathered, bedhead tamed, breakfast doled out, and hugs and kisses distributed, and the kids and The Husband were on their way.
Little One and I then snuggled on the couch and watched a few of his morning shows on Sprout.
(I hate to admit that I don't despise them as much as I should)
(Though I'm not overly fond of the new Wiggles line up, and I miss DirtGirlWorld and Play With Me Sesame)
(And the fact that I have enough knowledge on this topic to have an opinion is... sad)
Anyhoodle, the day progressed, and being that it was cold and rainy today, I had grand plans to drink tea and read David McCullough's John Adams. As my first cup brewed on the side table next to me, I snuggled under the electric blanket and began to read.
I could hear the cat in the bathroom, scratching around in his litter box. I paid no attention, other than to remind myself to scoop it once my tea was done (another of my unpleasant but necessary morning chores).
The cat meandered out of the bathroom and plopped down next to the coffee table to... ahem... tend to his bits, as he always does after visiting the litter box. Gross, but nothing new.
But then "The Thing" happened; the thing that always alerts me that something is not right with the cat. He jumped up, made this weird panicky "mreow" sound, and started walking in circles shaking his legs.
I have dubbed this the "poop shimmy".
And nothing good ever comes from it.
So I started following him around, trying to get a glimpse of what was stressing him out. I couldn't see it, but I started to be able to smell it.
I gingerly grabbed him, lifted his tail (to which he protested), and saw.... it.
Big ol' turd stuck to the base of his tail.
Le sigh.
See, my cat is an Asian Long-Haired. Which, from what the vet told me (because I'm clearly not an expert) is basically one step down from a Persian.
Dude is FLUFFY.
Which makes for utter cuteness.
But it also makes for a fecal danger zone around his backdoor.
This is resolved through regular bum trimmings. But we've been busy lately, and kept putting it off. Ironically, I had just told The Husband last night that this weekend we needed to give him a good bath and then trim him up.
Too late!
So upon discovering his little fur nugget, I descended into "EWEWEWEWEWEWEWEWEW!!!!!" mode.
Still holding him (away from my body, obviously), I grabbed the nearest cleaning implement I could find, which happened to be Clorox wipes. I used two of those to pull off the biggest chunk of nasty, and then realized that- perhaps- those weren't the best things to use on my poor, poopy kitty.
I can just hear PETA collectively chastising me. I'm sorry! I panicked!
So I brought the cat into the bathroom, scruffed him to hold him in place on the floor, and used much more cat-friendly baby wipes to clean his bum with.
Ten minutes, twenty baby wipes, one pissed off cat, and one hand cramp later, his bum was as clean as I could possibly get it. I released him, and he immediately jumped in the bathtub to hide from me (and go to town on himself).
I scrubbed my hands until they were sore, searched the entire apartment for any possible dingleberries he may have dropped, and then plopped down on the couch exhausted. It's quite tiring holding a squirming, angry, growling cat in place so you can scrape poop off his butt fir.
Just so you know.
I finished my now almost cold cup of tea, but was too distracted to continue reading. I started laundry and puttered around for a bit, and then it came time for Little One's nap time. Amazingly enough, he didn't have a meltdown over having to lay down, which I (mistakenly) took as being a good sign.
He laid down, I checked on him about twenty minutes later to make sure he had actually gone to sleep (never a safe assumption with a three-year-old), and then made my second cup of tea.
The afternoon progressed fairly uneventfully, which I appreciated. But then I began to realize that Little One had been asleep far longer than usual. And it made me a little... apprehensive.
I was just about to go check on him when the door to his bedroom opened, and he came bouncing out, all bright and happy and chipper.
Again, my very wrong assumption was just that he had had a really good nap. I got him his sippy cup and a snack, and then went into the room to open the curtains for him so he could play.
And then I saw it.
A ball of red yarn on the floor.
Sprinklings of red yarn across his bed.
His Jessie doll (from Toy Story) tucked in a clump next to the bed.
And my daughter's craft scissors out of their usual pencil box...
Two and two quickly came together.
Jessie got a haircut!
Oy vey.
No wonder nap time seemed to take forever! He had probably been awake for at least a half hour or so, and had gotten creative.
Poor Jessie. It's not a pretty look!
So Little One got a talking to about not playing with scissors and not cutting people's or doll's hair. He went in time out for a few minutes to get the point across. And then he apologized and fluttered off to go play.
While I was annoyed at the haircutting snafu, I was prepared to let it go. He's only three, he doesn't know better, and it was only yarn.
But then things spiraled. Rapidly.
Little One asked for my help in pulling the Lego bin and toy box out, so I did.
And the hissy fits began.
You see, I made the horrible mistake of not putting the toy box exactly where he wanted it, on account of his request being unrealistic (I'm not going to rearrange bedroom furniture just so the toy box can go where the dresser stands!)
A meltdown of apocalyptic measures commenced. Time out ensued. And discussion of proper behavior, using our words, etc followed. He apologized, hugged me, and went back to play.
Upon walking in his bedroom, however, he remembered why he was been so ferklemped in the first place.
That damn toy box!
Cue another meltdown.
Another (longer) time out.
Another discussion.
More apologies, more hugs, and off to play again.
And then the toy box...
I think you see where the cyclical nature of my afternoon is going with this.
Suffice it to say, at some point in the battle over the toy box positioning, I brewed myself the third cup of tea.
It was desperately needed if I was to refrain from going nu-cu-lar (thanks Dubya for that!)
Finally, I just pushed the toy box back where it was to begin with. Problem solved, right?
Dear god no.
Enter the most epic breakdown in the history of toddlerhood.
He screamed. He cried. He growled. He called me names and told me he hated me. He tried to hit and kick me (a new development). He told me he didn't need me anymore and to leave him alone (good luck with that one, who's gonna change your diapers?) It got so ridiculously over the top that I had a hard time not laughing. It's also surprising how hurtful a three-year-old is capable of being!
Time out was the super-duper-Lord-of-the-Rings-marathon kind of extended version. He stayed there until daddy got home!
'Cause mommy was about to develop a drinking problem.
And then? The most annoying thing of all. Daddy gets home from work, and like magic, Little One is all better. Crisis over. Mood perfect.
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