Ah life, it’s fucking grand. Yesterday was a day for the record books. Sean was sick, Briar was a marauding tank full of piss and vinegar and Avery was relentlessly getting all up in the grill of the aforementioned tank, which any mom of two under three can tell you spells :
I really did my best to keep it all together. Briar has a drawer in the kitchen, meant to keep her out of trouble. As many of you dearly coveted readers and commenters know, she has taken an interest in a spelunking of sorts, using a teaspoon to plumb the depths of our poor dog’s anal cave. Now, that in itself isn’t all that awful (ok, actually it is, but it’s not the hill I am ready to die on) the awful part is something that dawned on me as I frantically tried to cook macaroni and cheese while keeping Avery from crawling into the drawer of the oven that no matter what I do amasses little hateful bits of mouse shit that make me feel like a low-rent prosititute serving up rat tails and crack pipes for my kids’ entertainment. Batted away once again by what Briar has told me is a big foot (welcome back childhood ache, yes, they said I’d grow into ’em but fuck if it doesn’t still hurt to have my feet called ‘big’) she crawled away and lifted herself to standing with the help of a drawer. Briar’s drawer. A drawer filled with stainless steel delights o’plenty. I focused on cooking the noodles.
Stir. Stir. Blow. Blow. Ouch that steam is hot.
I could hear Briar, or rather I could hear the Pixar movie she was parked in front of. Yes, I know, the computer and tv are poor substitutes for a hands on mom. Well what’s a telecommuting, diaper changing mom of a “spirited” toddler and mobile infant to do? I put foam pads under her chair. She’s happy, she’s got an incredible vocabulary (and I am not talking about the poker table expletives she’s picked up from god knows where snort). I give, if you want to slam me for it, fine, but I bet when you shit it stinks.
Avery, what’cha doing sweetie? You’re so quiet.
I could feel her radiant smile as I looked down, damp wooden spoon in my hand and a halo of pasta steam induced frizz around my horribly broken out face.
Her dark eyes twinkled as she gleefully exclaimed, “Uh-yaw!” Which is Avery for:
Damn, but this teaspoon tastes good in my mouth.
I looked at the spoon, looked at the drawer, back at the spoon and then-
Shit.
Literally. Shit. The spoon. The dog. My god.
No, no, no honey. That’s yuck. That’s so yuck, yuck, yuckety.
I snagged the spoon and tossed it, not in the sink, but in the trash. Erase all evidence. Deny, deny, deny. She took the one spoon that hadn’t been a canine anal probe, right? Or Briar had actually put the “used” spoons in the sink, right? My heart absolutely plummeted as I shut the burner off while thick, pasta water ran over the stovetop. The phone rang, but I couldn’t find it to answer it. The dog was howling outside and the goddamned cat was doing a cha cha under my feet with every step I took.
Suddenly the piercing siren of toddler vexation bleeted from the general vicinity of the computer.
I scooped Avery in my arms and ran to Briar, hoping against hope that she wasn’t hurt.
What is it baby? What happened?
Mama!
I knelt at her side and scanned her body for signs of injury. Avery giggled in my arms as she arched her back, trying to wrench herself from my arms. The momentum of her body knocked me back and onto my saggy jeaned ass. I set her down with a sigh and turned back to Briar.
Please let her be ok. Please let me not have blown this too.
Mama.
What is it?
Mama, want it.
Want what?
Mama, Briar want it!
Ok, tell me and I’ll do it.
Wet dream, mama. Wet dreams for Briar.
What?
Wet dream.
Briar, what are you saying?
WET DREAM!
Ah hell no. I am not going down (ha ha ha) for this one. I did not teach her wet dream. I can’t abide:
“horny”
“moist”
“boner”
I assure you, “wet dream” did not come from me. But of course that makes no never mind to the judgers in the store or the folks who I shall not name who know so much about how to do things the right way.
Honey, why are you saying that? What do you mean?
Mama’s a wet dream.
No, honey. Not really. I mean maybe. Kind of flattering. Stop. What do you mean?
Wet dream, mama.
What is wet dream?
She smiled at me, a beatific look on the face of an angel.
Wet dream!
She exclaimed with joy and feeling. Avery patted my leg. My shoulders slumped as the phone rang again. I have failed. No dinner, no phone, and a big loud wet dream. I looked up at the computer table for the phone.
Red’s Dream read the screen.
Red’s Dream, a Pixar Film.
Pixar, you wet dream you!