the great flush

     I was in a hurry. A big hurry.  Getting three little kids and a slow moving, dragging feet, husband out the door to church on time, is truly enough work for an entire weekend.  No matter how early the routine begins before 6:00 mass on Sunday, someone always manages to spill something down their shirt, lose a shoe, or crap through an outfit at the precise minute I would like to leave. Always. 

     90 minutes before the start of church, I began the ordeal.  I changed Bud's clothes and combed his hair and asked my husband to get start getting ready.  I changed Declan's clothes, washed his face and horrendously smelly feet, put his shoes on, and kindly asked my husband to get in the shower.  I fed Finley some bananas and oatmeal, washed her up, put a darling little sun dress on her, complete with bloomers, and told my wonderful husband to get into the damn shower.  I put Declan's shoes back on, changed Finley's disgusting diaper, and set both boys in front of the wii. Although, I feel like I am moving at the speed of light while performing these tasks, the time is ticking away. So, I put Finley on the floor of the master bathroom with some baking utensils to occupy herself and I kick my husband out of the shower he has just begun, hose off, dry off, and jump in my clothes. I look down and realize with disgust the toilet is full of boy pee. Rolling my eyes, I lean over to flush it, while hastily grabbing my makeup bag off the back of the toilet. Unzipped contents of my makeup bag scatter across the bathroom floor except for the most import of contents, the birth control.  I look down and watch my cute little sunkist yellow compact of antibaby, swirling around and disappearing down into the toilet.  With my cat like mommy reflexes I plunge my arm into the toilet (great think my sassy sundress was sleeveless!) and successfully pluck out the pills. To my surprise, in my right hand I have only the pills, compact gone! 

     I reach my hand into the toilet and weave my arm around an S curve and the very tips of my fingers can feel the edge of the compact. I glance at my watch, still have 5 minutes before go time.  Check on the boys, playing wii with daddy who has Finley on his lap.  I grab a hanger, plunge my hand back into the toilet, shove the hanger down the toilet and attempt to "pinch" the compact between my finger tips and the hanger. No dice.  I give it a few more attempts, give up, scrub my arm to the elbow with bleach and corral the troops into the minivan to church.

     Church was lovely. My mind did start to wander during the homily and tried to come up with a couple more strategies to retrieve the palm size piece of plastic from the depths of the bathroom. I did say a prayer about my toilet situation inbetween bribing the children to be still and quiet with promises of popsicles.

    Returning to the home front, I wanted everybody down for the night so I could resume my efforts. I dished out the guys their popsicles, I put Finley in her jammies, and started nursing her when I heard some commotion downstairs.  Finley on the breast, I ran downstairs and found the boys in a heated argument, crying.  With my free arm, I broke up the fight, washed up their popsicle stained faces and began to put their jammies on them, when it dawned on me, where on earth is my husband? And I heard the flush.

     NOOOO! I ran to the bathroom, alas, too late! The water, toilet paper, and other goodies of the toilet were already erupting over the bowl by the time I reached the doorway.  Disgustingness.  Together we cleaned and plunged and cleaned and plunged until we both came to the agreement we did not want to flush money down the toilet on a plumber (ha ha) and we vowed to not use our master bathroom toilet for #2 or use more than a square of toilet paper.  This was over a month ago and it is killing me, especially in the middle of the night! So do I cave and break the bank on a plumber or just put the house up on the market sooner than expected?

back in the game

Long time, no post.  I am not a seasoned enough blogger to be sitting out months at a time. I suppose it doesn't matter too terribly much, since I don't think anyone really reads this except me.  But I gain a certain sense of accomplishment typing out my funny little daily triumphs, thus, I have returned to blogging. Many times during a crazy ordeal, the thought "I should blog about this" popped into my brain.  Sadly, I didn't, and now have forgotten all my funny, blog worthy memories, except for maybe one. The Jose Pepper's incident.

  My husband and I LOVE Mexican food.  We could eat it every day, the only exception, being the first 20 weeks of each pregnancy. I am then back, ready for a fiesta.  We were once what you would call "regulars" at a great little Mexican restaurant down the street.  Fabulous menu, fabulous margaritas, and the kiddos favorite thing on earth to eat are the mini corn dogs on the kids menu (although, I am not certain how corn dogs made their way into the Mexican joint).  Never the less, enjoyment for the whole family.

  As newly weds, we frequented Jose Pepper's at least two times a week.  Kevin didn't know how to cook and usually didn't get home from a hard day's work until 5:30 or 6.  I was never able to find the time.  I worked full time as a nurse (3 days a week), and was very busy watching reruns of ER, sleeping in and taking naps, and really, I am not too sure what the hell I did back then.  As new parents, it was very difficult with a new baby, who basically just slept and ate, to find the time to prepare a meal other that cooked noodles and a jar of spaghetti sauce.  So to Jose Pepper's we would flee.  Delicious! At one point we were on a first name basis with wait staff and managers alike.  Our favorite manager even bought us our last meal before adding Miss Finley to our family's mix.  Unfortunately,  with all the kids, the wonderful meal out, has turned into an expensive side-show like venture, that usually ends in the boys throwing punches at each other and angry screams from a tired, hungry Finley. Kevin and I would offer bribes while speed eating, shoving down our dinners before admitting defeat.  After failed attempts at peacemaking and modest breastfeeding, Kev and I would leave deflated with our dinners in hand, in to go boxes. 
 
  Last Tuesday, we decided to meet up with our good friends Ben, Tanya and their two kiddos after Kevin's softball game. We decided to dine at our beloved Jose Pepper's.  With Finley, being old enough to sit in a high chair and enjoy some flavors of her own, and the boys having little friends to converse with, I was hopeful. The ordeal started perfectly! I sat with the adults and Finely at one end of the long table, the kiddos sat at the other.  I glanced down at them, they were being so sweet, coloring and talking with their little pals.  It was around 7:30 and the kiddos were starving. They dove right into the chips and salsa while the adults were able to engage in conversation with minimal interruptions!  Amazing! We ate our appetizers in calm and adult-like manner. I even was able to chew! The main courses arrived, I gave Finley some black beans and cornbread mush and you would have thought it was a filet mignon, she was so smiley and happy.  I looked down at the guys and they were going to town on their mini corn dogs. Declan was picking grapes out of his fruit cup and laughing. Buddy was already nearly done with his meal, 5 minutes into the feast.  It was wonderful, adult conversations, happy children, and great food. 
 
  Our waitress was even fantastic. She asked it would be alright to bring all the kids out little cups of ice cream for being so good.  I glanced down at the boys, Dec was just still eating at a leisurely pace with half his meal eaten.  Buddy's eating frenzy had come to an all-out hault.  Kevin encouraged him to finish his last corn dog to earn some ice cream, which he obediently did before turning back to his daddy and crying, "my tummy is sick!" The moment I heard that phrase in that tone, panic set in.  And everything began to happen in slow motion.  With fear in my eyes I yelled to Kevin, "get him out of here!" Kevin scooped Buddy up and not two steps into his escape, up came the corn dogs, chips and salsa, fruit, all in a lovely bath of chocolate milk. Thank God, no one was sitting at the booth behind us because it was drenched in vomit.  Buddy was crying hysterically. Dec was upset that his brother was crying so he started crying.  I quickly put Fin in her carseat to free up my hands, she started crying.  A trio of crying kids, a husband soaked in vomit, the night had turned disastrous!  Kev took Budman outside where the lovely manager brought him a Sprite in an attempt to bring color back to his face. Apologetic beyond belief, I threw a credit card at the waitress and furiously tried to mop up the mess with a myriad of paper towel and wet wipes. Ben even had joined in and was cleaning up my kid's puke.  Once the bill was settled, after a multitude of "I am SO sorries," I grabbed Declan and Finley and left the scene of the crime.  The poor little patient Buddy, was sitting with Kevin, now shirtless, on a bench outside the restaurant, sipping his Sprite.  He looked up at me, smiled and said, "Too many corn dogs, huh mom?"
  Feeling relieved that my poor little man was feeling better, but absolutely depressed we could never return to our beloved Jose Peppers, we loaded up in the blue minivan and went home.