If you don’t understand satire, please don’t even read this…

Marriage has always been, by definition, “until death do us part.”  It is not – nor has it ever been – for “time and all eternity” yet Mormons are trying to undermine the institution of marriage by changing the fundamental definition of marriage to encompass “forever.”  This threatens the marriages of each and every legally married “until death do us part” couple.  In fact it rocks the very foundation of marriage and leaves the institution vulnerable to further crumbling. 

 

Consider this:  More than 50% of all marriages already fail.  Couples only have to keep their marriages together for 40 to 50 years “until death” and still most cannot do this.   Imagine what the divorce rate will look like if married couples are expected to keep it together for eternity.

 

Shall we start a movement to prohibit Mormon marriages from receiving the same legal protections and familial status as non-Mormon marriage?  Of course, they can, as a Church decide to officiate whatever marriages they want but these marriages are ordained by a Mormon God.   Should they even have any civil standing?  These couples are not married until “death do they part” - a fundamental definition of the institution of marriage, should they be able to offer health benefits to their “forever families?”   I haven’t even started in on the issue of celestial polygamy.  Should the “families for eternity” camp be allowed to adopt?  We cannot stop them from reproducing, but we can legislate around foster issues and adoption.   Children, even those in orphanages or institutions of the state, deserve the most ideal home possible.  They HAVE NOT CHOSEN to be with their adopted family for “time and all eternity.”  Every adopted child deserves the right to have their adoption end at their death.  This is fundamental folks.

 

When will it stop?  The hate.  The divisions.  The logic (or lack thereof) is all too familiar to me.

 

No people.  I don’t think an “eternal” marriage threatens an “until death” only marriage.  But hey, I also don’t think a same-sex marriage threatens a heterosexual marriage either.

 

I say,  if you don’t want one, don’t get one.

 

The Tooth Fairy and the Banker

The Tooth Fairy is a touchy subject in this house.  Last August Riley lost his first tooth.  Kim and I the Tooth Fairy made the mistake of giving two golden dollars for the feat.  (inflation.  I swear, I got a quarter.)  I’m not sure why we the Tooth Fairy chose this particular route.  At the time, it seemed reasonable.  He was only 5.  We knew he’d get excited about seeing gold even if it were only worth a dollar each.  We the Tooth Fairy regretted this just a few short weeks later when Riley lost his second tooth.  He chose the night we moved across town to lose the second tooth.  We spent the entire day unpacking, organizing, and trying to make sense of our new space.  Exhausted, we crawled into bed after midnight.  And as we relaxed, Kim realized that we needed to pay up for the lost tooth.  Only we had no idea which box might hold my jewelry box and my jewelry box held my golden dollars.  Kim started rifling through boxes, destroying the illusion that we packed in an organized fashion.  No golden dollars.  Finally Kim opened a box that contained Riley’s painted tooth box.  (Apparently the Tooth Fairy has gotten lazy in the last few years.  Under the pillow is too much work.  So she now removes the tooth from a much more sanitary wooden box and replaces the tooth with the golden dollars.)  In Riley’s painted tooth box were his two golden dollars from his tooth a few weeks earlier.   

I had an epiphany.  We’d set out his tooth box and he’d find the 2 golden dollars.  He’d happily accept them.  We’d get 6 hours of sleep.  When things were unpacked and back to normal, I’d throw in a couple of golden dollars to keep things fair.  Kim refused to believe it’d work.  She insisted that he’d know.  She was convinced that the FIRST thing he’d do would be to find his other golden dollars and put them all together.  I was certain that he’d happily accept the money without incidence. 

He awoke the next morning and rushed to open his tooth box.  Tears welled up in his eyes.  “The Tooth Fairy didn’t come,” he wailed.  I responded, “Of course the Tooth Fairy came.  See, there’s your money.”  He insisted that he was two dollars short.  I repeatedly informed him that his OTHER two dollars were packed somewhere and that the two dollars in the box WAS MOST DEFINITELY HIS LOOT FROM LAST NIGHT. 

He wasn’t buying it.  Instead he shouted, “You’re the worst Tooth Fairy a kid has ever EVER had!” 

He’s lost 3 other teeth since then and the Tooth Fairy has always arrived without incidence.  She even paid up an extra buck for the tooth that had to be extracted by the dentist because the permanent tooth was growing in from behind but the baby tooth wasn’t loosening fast enough. 

Tonight Riley lost his 6^th tooth.  His four front teeth (top and bottom) are permanent and seem extra large for his little mouth, especially now that he has a missing space on each side of his bottom front teeth.  He was so proud because tonight was the first time that he’d pulled the tooth out by himself. 

While I was putting him to bed, he gloated just a bit more.  “I’m six years old and I have lost six teeth and I have one brother and this is the one tooth I pulled myself.  Get it?  Six.  Six.  One.  One.”  He thought he was being clever.  I told him I got it.  But I have NO IDEA what he was going on about.  He was rambling, “speaking six” we call it.

He went on, “What time does the Tooth Fairy come?”  He asked. 

“I have no idea.”  I responded.  “I guess just when she can get here.” 

“Mom.  I KNOW you’re the Tooth Fairy so just tell me.”

“Why do you want to know?”  I asked.

“Because if she doesn’t come until tomorrow, I’m going to have to charge interest!”

To think that I tried to trick him out of 2 dollars less than a year ago. 

He’s two. He’s really two.

I’ve never been one to call the joyful coming into one’s voice as being the “terrible twos” but I really do not know what else to call Casey’s behavior tonight. Okay, truthfully, it was not all night, but certainly was AT LEAST 20 minutes of stubbornness and screaming that I had not yet seen in this child.

It was as if The Incredible Hulk and Matt Biondi had a baby. (aah. I miss Lauren.)

Why all the ruckus you might ask? Because we requested, as we always do, that as part of his bedtime routine, he actually brush his teeth.

He wailed. He screamed. Mama K. rushed over to assist. She held him. I held the toothbrush. We explained that this was not a choice, that we expected him to brush his teeth. He clamped his mouth shut. I tried to pry it open (sounds so bad) with the toothbrush. He realized he was not going to win so he lost all composure and in an angry gasp for air, he decided to cry. Only he was so wound up a this point that his breath intake was not followed by breath expulsion. As his mouth gaped wide open, I started brushing those beautiful pearly whites. I expected the audible scream to come. Sometimes it is a bit delayed when he gets this angry. But no. It never came. His lips turned blue. His face got all scrunched up and his entire face started turning blue.

I chose this particular moment to completely freak out. I could not understand why a child would HOLD HIS OWN BREATH until he was blue. I decided that he must have swallowed his tongue and was unable to breathe. Or that he was somehow choking on his own phlegm or on the toothpaste and was actually airway impaired.

No. That was not the case. This was simply his very first temper tantrum.

But seriously, he flailed those Hulk arms and held that Biondi breath for at least a minute.

Ten minutes later he was begging to cuddle up on the couch with me and even though I felt so in need of a reassuring hug from the child, I instead tucked him back into bed.

Did I happen to mention that we had a friend over to witness the entire episode? I don’t think he wants kids. In fact, I’m sure of it.

Camping like it is the 4th of July

  

Apparently, there’s nothing like colonialism to make a person want to fry up fish, get eaten by gnats and play with small amounts of explosives.  Anecdotally, I’ve heard that the 4^th of July is to LGBT folks as Super Bowl Sunday is to women.   With the beer flowing and the Patriotism running rampant, I can see how the 4^th of July might include a little gay-bashing.  Independence Day has never been my favorite holiday.   Truthfully I don’t really like holidays at all, but I did get a bit excited about the boys hanging out with their cousins, the visit with my family, the opportunity to get away from the looming dissertation even if just for a weekend, and the chance to do all this where it wasn’t 100 degrees was an added bonus. 

 

The camp site was beautiful.  Nestled between a canal and the Uintah River, the spot was mostly shaded by pines and aspen.  My sister had driven up there mid-last week to pitch a tent and psych other campers into thinking the spot was already taken.  It was sort of the camping equivalent of butting in line, but it worked.  My sister brought her camp trailer complete with running water and a flushable toilet that I willingly pitched in $10 so I could use. 

 

On the drive I realized what city children my boys were.  First when Riley saw a herd of cows and remarked, “What’s beef called again?  When it’s alive?” 

 

This was followed up about 15 minutes later by Casey seeing a horse and remarking, “Giraffe.  See it giraffe.”  I realized my kids had seen giraffes at the zoo more often than they’d seen horses. 

 

Riley played, got dirty, got bitten by mosquitoes, went fishing, caught fish, choke down the fish (a rainbow trout) and pretended to like it though he admitted it wasn’t as good as blue gill (his first catch.)  He got to bond with his Grandpa and with his 13 year old cousin J.  J’s mentorship was so cute, and resulted in such great conversations to overhear such as the following:

 

Riley and J. lit a lantern around 9:30 PM to go find a willow branch to make into a s’mores tong. 

J. “Come on Riley, lets go find a willow.  We might be awhile, I don’t even know what a willow looks like.

Riley, “Should we bring the axe?”

 

Later that night, Riley was trying to fall asleep in his tent with J. but was too worried that the fire would start a terrible forest fire if he fell asleep instead of watched it as it went out.
J.  “Riley its okay.  Just go to sleep.  The fire is almost out anyway.”

Riley “Should we just go put some water on it?  I’d feel better.”

J. “Don’t worry, Riley, I’ve been doing this for YEARS.”

 

 

Casey didn’t so much love the camping.  He realized early on that camping was really just a series of “no nos.”  Walking to the canal brought the cautionary “Danger.”  Heading to the river brought a similar response.  Pulling the dogs tail was also not allowed.  Getting in the way of horseshoes and goofy golf was off limits.  Playing with the door to the camper got him yelled at by his Auntie.  Don’t get too close to the fire.  Don’t get too far away from camp.  Don’t play behind the vehicles.  Don’t play with the bow and arrow.  Don’t touch the axe.  Was there anything he could do?   Saturday afternoon Casey found play dough in the camper and tentatively asked if he could open it.  I said “of course” to which he replied, “Oh thank God.” 

 

Anyway, Kim, Casey and I slipped away Saturday night to drive to town for a hot shower and a bed at my parents’.  We let Riley stay a second night and we returned Sunday to retrieve him.  He was dirty and exhausted but loved every second of it.

 

Casey, however, kept chanting, “Casey go home.”

 

Sunday, just before we all left to scatter to our various homes, my Dad said to the travelers, “Drive safe.  There are going to be a lot of tired hung-over assholes on that road.”

 

My brother replied, “I know.  I’m one of them.”

 

 

 

Our Evening Walks

I tried to make the title sound romantic and enticing.  But I have to be honest, our evening walks are usually more stressful than an evening walk ought to be.  Last night was particularly rough.

It started out well enough.  Riley ahead riding his bike all by himself without training wheels.  (*glowing with pride*), Kim pushing Casey on his tricycle with the adult helper handle.  Then, we saw it.  The cutest puppy you can ever imagine.  If I knew brand names breeds,  I’d tell ya, but I don’t.  All I know is that it was the cutest little puppy with golden red hair.  Actually there were several puppies with the Mommy dog and Casey hopped off his bike to get a snuggle in.  Riley too rallied around the excitement.  The owner then announced that the puppy was FREE and would be ready for a home in the next few weeks.  Riley started jumping up and down.  “Can we get it?  Can we get it?”  Kim also started jumping up and down, “Can we get it?  Can we get it?”  Casey started yelling, “Choc chock chet” which I can only imagine is his rendition of “Can we get it?”

No, of course we cannot get it, spoke the VOICE OF REASON, also known as Momma Ruth.  But truthfully, even my heart melted.  I felt like the puppy was meant to be a part of our family.  Her eyes connected with mine and it was like she was begging for me to give in.  I mumbled something about having to think about it and that we’d be back and the walk resumed.

Only the walk was now a philosophical discussion.  I’ve been having baby pangs lately.  (I really think my hormones are out of whack from sharing close quarters with my female officemates.) I can’t possible REALLY want another child.  Why would I want this?  I cannot keep up with the 2 that I have, yet my heartstrings are being pulled by babies everywhere.  Besides I know that we cannot keep up with, shuttle around, or afford another baby.  Suddenly the answer seemed to be in that puppy.  I could give love to an animal.  I realized on that walk why people have pets. 

But the VOICE OF REASON knows that we cannot take on another responsibility.  Not now, when there’s a dissertation looming, sucking us in, taunting us with its ever presence.  I cannot do anything anymore with Kim without feeling guilt overtake my every nerve because - she SHOULD BE writing her dissertation.

It’s like our life is suspended until this thing is complete.  We have conversations all the time that begin, “When you’re done with the dissertation, maybe we could….”   Put up a fence.  Make a carport.  Get a second income.  Pay off loans.  Get a puppy.  Go on vacation.  HAVE SOME PEACE. 

I know I sound like a selfish person inconvenienced by this little thing called my partner’s dream, but my resolve is wearing thin.  I know that Kim needs support more than ever before which is why this puppy cannot be.  Adding to our list of “to do”s is not going to help, is likely going to hurt, and certainly is not going to speed up the process. 

Consequently, as I was nursing my own broken heart, over the puppy who wouldn’t come home with us, and maintaining the need to be the VOICE OF REASON so not really allowing myself to be conflicted over the puppy, I totally YELLED at Riley over a slightly consequencial but totally not as big of a deal as I made it out to be thing.  We were getting ready to cross the street.  I said, “Cross now.”  He said, “I want to go this way.”  I yelled, “Cross now.”  He couldn’t gather himself together in time, a car starting coming, I grabbed him from his bike because he didn’t see the car.  He said, “You said cross now.”  I said something like, “You dilly dallied so long arguing with your mother that you made it unsafe to cross” and launched into a safety lecture and made him cry.

It really was all about the dog.

On another note, our walk the evening before was much more peaceful.  Casey had skipped his nap and couldn’t quite stay awake for the necessary trip to the grocery store to pick up coffee creamer and slim fast.  Enjoy the pic…

 

It’s Public Record Now*

 *Updated for typo control

I am being a bit of a drama queen and I KNOW that I am being a drama queen but I simply cannot STOP myself from being a drama queen.  Why all the drama you ask?

 

Because I got a letter in the mail yesterday from a doctor’s office I once visited explaining that they had experienced a theft of backup billing records.  The letter read, “While we have no reason to believe your information will be accessed or misused, we are writing to inform you of the incident and the proactive steps we’re taking to help protect your personal information.  A box containing backup billing records” for the clinic “was stolen while in the possession of a courier working for an independent storage company.  Your name and Social Security number were included on the backup tapes!”

 

A thief now has all of my personal information including my Social Security number.  But I am not supposed to worry because the clinic that the information was stolen from has no reason to believe my information will be accessed or misused.

 

Isn’t the fact that it was stolen a reason to believe that the information will be misused?  How often does one steal another’s identity and not put it to good use?  It’s like having my blouse stolen from a laundromat and the thief leaving a letter advising me not to worry because the blouse isn’t her size.  No, it’s bigger than a blouse, its like having my car stolen and receiving a note from the dealership, “Don’t worry, we have no reason to believe that the thief will actually drive your car.”  Of course the thief will drive the car, why do you think my car was stolen?

 

See, I told you, DRAMA QUEEN!

 

Still, as a consolation prize, the clinic is paying for me to have a period of credit monitoring along with e-mail alerts of any key changes in my credit and a free credit report right now to see how good my credit was before it was stolen. 

 

It’s as if the letter from the dealership continues, “If we do find out that the thief has been driving your car, we’ll reimburse you for every mile driven.”  I don’t want a reimbursement, I want my car back.  I want my privacy back.  I want my identity back. 

 

You were warned that I was being a drama queen and you chose to continue reading so I have no guilt that you have to read my whining.  By the way, my credit score is/was 790.  It is/was considered Excellent.  Better than 98% of Americans.  Well, it WAS.  It’s public record now.

Does meme equal chain letter?

I’m so excited.  This is the first time in my adult life that I’ve played tag.  It’s true I should play more.  My friend over at Pieces of Gray tagged me to write this meme – whatever that is.  I know it as a chain letter.

How long have you been married?  Let’s see.  It depends on what you consider married.  If you want to know how long we’ve had the 1000+ benefits of legal marriage, then I guess you could say we’re involved in the longest engagement ever since marriage hasn’t come to Utah yet.  If you consider our commitment ceremony our marriage then we’ve been married since 1997.  11 freaking years. 

Where did you meet?  That would be Colorado State University where I was her boss.  But we don’t talk about that much.

How long did you date?  Don’t you listen?  11 freaking years.  12 if you count that first year that we were madly in love but not “dating.”

How old is she?  33

Who eats more?  Me.

Who is taller?  I am by a good 7 inches, but if you go by her high school basketball roster I have barely 2 inches on her.

Who is smarter?  We were both salutatorians, does that make us both the same?  Sometimes I lack a little common sense  (is it really that common?) so I’m gonna have to say her.

Whose temper is worse?  Her.  So much worse, but I’ve only seen it twice.

Who does the laundry?  Her.  I’ve agreed to, but she has a thing about the way I mix the colors so she lost the option to complain and won the option to do laundry.

Who sleeps on the right side of the bed?  I do.  If by “right” you mean “correct.”  Because I definitely sleep on the right side of the bed – as in the left side.

Who pays the bills?  She has a little of the ADD.  Our FICO scores improved greatly when I took this over.

 

Who cooks dinner?  We tag team but she definitely cooks dinner better. 

Who drives when you are together?   Her again. (She claims car sickenss, but I think it is more control issues.)

Who is more stubborn?  Well, that’s not very fair.  I was raised a Hackford so I really didn’t have a chance. 

 

Who kissed whom first? That would be my dad’s homemade wine kissed us both equally. 

Who is the first to admit to being wrong?  There really is no right and wrong. (She’s a Phd student who identifies as a “postie” so she doesn’t believe that there is Truth either.)  Even in my response you can see that I really will do anything to keep from admitting I’m wrong so I guess her. 

Whose parents do you see the most?  Mine.  Hers are more distant.

Who proposed?  Grandma Jo did.  She called me and said she wouldn’t have me shacking up.  So I called Kim and told her Grandma told us we had to get married.  It lacked a little of the romance. 

 

What’s her best physical attribute?  Have you seen those eyes?  Lips? Her hair?  Hell, she even has a great chin.  More than any physical attribute, she occupies a space on the gender continuum that is both masculine and feminine and really very hot. 

 

Who has more friends?   We opted for children.

 

What are you most proud of her for?  Her PhD.  Except she doesn’t have that yet, so I guess nothing.

Just kidding.  I am proud every day that she chooses to be with me.  I’m proud of the way she took care of me when I was pregnant and after the C-sections.  I’m proud of how she listens to – really listens - to the boys.  I got all kinds of proud. 

Who has more siblings?  Me with 3 beats her with 1.

Who wears the pants in the family?  That would so be our 6-year old Riley. 

 

Oh, and I’m gonna tag the Eric Echo on this because he has another half who I haven’t met so I’d love to hear the details. 

 

Connie

 

I am so fed up with a co-worker right now that I have to vent.  I know a blogger is NOT supposed to write about work for fear of getting dooced, but I can’t keep this in.  I’m annoyed, not by how little she does (although she does do very little), not by her attitude when I expect something from her (although it’s always negative), but because she chooses the most important, most busy moments to completely break down. 

 

And then she refuses to complete the job at hand. 

 

And ultimately my other co-workers and my supervisor completely enable her temper tantrums.

They offer up all kinds of excuses for her from “She’s been here longer than any of us, we should respect that” to “Connie doesn’t multitask well.  Why do you have to overwhelm her?”

 

Typically, I ask another co-worker who has known Connie for years to go talk to her.  Lauren takes a few minutes one-on-one, coaxes her, bribes her – Honestly I have no idea what soft touch Lauren has that I lack, but typically Lauren convinces Connie to comply.

 
In this case, I had finished up a late night at the office and I had to be back at the office by 7:30 the next morning for a board meeting.  I needed a few things done before the board meeting and I started doing them about 8 PM.   My boss was here, but Lauren had already left.  I needed 20 copies of a one-page document before the board meeting the next day.  There was nobody to sweet-talk Connie who was pissed off that I had given her such short notice on a project. 

 

Okay, I’ll let you in on a little secret.  Connie is our copy machine.

 

Our copy machine who my boss and I had to take completely apart, use a nail file to get intimate with her girl parts and finally,  had to remove a tumor of wadded paper and coax her into doing the one thing in her job description – make copies.  Okay, she does faxes too, but not very well. 

 

And this is not the first time I have had to do this.

 

I think it is time for Connie to retire. 

 

Why do we make the testiest pickiest most incompliant objects in our life female?  I met Connie back in 2004 and she was already Connie.  But I imagine she didn’t become female until she started refusing to do her work.  Hmm.  Not very cool.  I think I’ll start calling HIM Conrad or Conway.

The weekend is over but my headache is not

The weekend summed up by what we didn’t do.

We didn’t go to our neighborhood barbeque to meet out neighbors.

We didn’t go to our friend’s going away party.

We didn’t go to the Ani Difranco concert.

We didn’t go to our friend’s game night.

We didn’t do laundry.

 

The weekend summed up by what we did do.

We took Casey to the doctor with a 104 degree fever.

We bought a new washing machine to be delivered tomorrow.

We hung out with Grandma Jo with our fingers crossed that she doesn’t get what Casey has.

 

The weekend summed up by what Casey did.

Casey puked.

Casey coughed.

Casey slept.

Casey watched Dora.

 

The weekend summed up by what Riley did.

Riley went to a friend’s birthday party all by himself. 

Riley went camping without his Mammas. 

 

What we’re going to do now:  SLEEP

nothing more than a “poor me” post

    

Today was the first day in 7 weeks of my new job that I woke up DREADING the thought of going to work.  Let me add that this had nothing to do with work and everything to do with the contents of this post.  I got a mere 2 hours of good sleep last night.

 

Not for lack of trying thank you.

 

I actually put face to pillow in Riley’s bed about 10 PM.  They were both having a hard time shutting it off so I crawled in next to Riley, turned on their model moon and the model solar system that we got on clearance at Costco because it included Pluto which really has no place on a revolving sun-lit solar system anymore.  We turned on Dora La La La and within minutes Riley was asleep.   Casey didn’t fare so well.  He crawled out of his bed and onto the mat on the floor.  He got up and retrieved all of his stuffed friends, his special pillow, and his blanket from his bed and placed them on the mat.  He then decided the mat wasn’t so comfy and he returned all the items and himself to the bed.  He repeated this process. I went over to comfort him.  I rubbed his back.  I soothingly told him a story.  I was so effective I put myself to sleep with my calm demeanor.   About 11 Kim came in the room to find me crashed and Casey moving his gear from mat to bed.  She told me she’d take over and to crawl into bed. 

 

Only, as is often the case these days, once I was awake, I couldn’t go back to sleep.  I brushed my teeth, washed my face, medicated my cold sore that is still pissing me off on day 9 of it’s intrusion into my life and then laid in bed for 20 minutes before Kim finally arrived to announce that victory had finally been hers.  Casey slept.  She returned to her office to continue writing for a publication deadline 24 hours and counting.  It was an hour before Country Legends 107.5 finally lulled me to sleep with its relaxing twang.    

 

That was 12:30 AM.  I was awakened at 1:30AM by coughing in the babe’s room.  I was awakened at 2 by Kim coming to bed.  And again at 2:15 when Kim decided to bring Casey into bed with us because his coughing was getting worse – sounding croup-like –and since she was awake worrying about his breathing anyway, he might as well be between us where we can both really worry.  Somehow I managed to keep drifting back to sleep between the croupy coughs and gasps for air.  At 2:30 I was jolted awake to Casey puking all over me, all over Kim, all over the bed, all over Lambie. 

 

Kim, who got the majority of the splash, crawled into the shower with Casey and I gathered up pukey laundry and started a load of wash.  I sprayed Lysol.  I obsessed over the Clorox wipes.  I got the bed re-linened and then I got Casey out of the shower.  We all laid back down to sleep.

 

The coughing worsened.  Kim, who hadn’t even enjoyed a couple of hours of shitty sleep, was exhausted.  I got up with Casey, got him some juice and sat down to watch a Dora.  I took his temperature and freaked out at the 103.0 reading.  So I woke up Kim to ask her what to do.  She replied that I should give him Motrin.  Now, 6 hours later it seems so logical, but at the time the thought of medication didn’t even cross my mind.  Wet towels.  Motrin.  His fever lowered but didn’t break;   He finally fell back to sleep at 5 AM. 

 

At this point I decided to change the laundry.  Let me preface this by saying that our washing machine has been acting up for almost a week now.  Its balance has been funky and it’s been wailing a bit during the spin cycle.  We figured the whining was just a way to get attention, you know, like every other member of the household… But no, apparently the washing machine was also sick….and she chose this exact moment to completely SHIT THE BED. 

 

 

The cycle had indicated that it was complete, but the laundry inside was still chunky with regurgitated raisins and cheese crackers.  The laundry was soaking wet.  The spin cycle was obviously ineffective.  I turned the machine on for an extra rinse.  The basket turned in slow motion, moaning as she moved.  The water, the soap, the puke…it wasn’t going anywhere.  So I reached in and removed the items one at a time.  I wrung the water out as much as possible and laid the items over the shower and the sink, and a metal shelf.  It was the most disgusting thing I had ever done, and you have to remember that I have given birth twice.  Earlier, while we all swam in puke, my mind was on the babe and the vomit was less repulsive.  But 3 hours later, while every other member of the household slept, I washed vomit out of sopping wet sheets all by myself and I cried. 

 

And then I went to sleep.