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Mornings In The Rough

"Mommy, the dog pooped. Two times," says Reid, my darling five-year-old as he bounds into my bedroom. I crack open an eye. He never lies. Well, he never lies unless it's about his sister and various tortures he's forced to endure from her evil teenager hands. But about poop nah, he never fibs. It gives him ceaseless Boy Joy to talk about doggie doo.

"It's morning, isn't it?"

He jumps on the waterbed and a vicious wave rolls across and jiggles me straight into crankyville. "Stop that."

He does it again.

"Stop it or I'll" Damn. I can't think of a dire enough threat. "I'll give you a fruit roll-up for breakfast if you will go away."

"Can I have two?"

"I don't care."

"Three."

"Don't push it, buddy."

He giggles, smiles, and bounds off the bed and out of the room. I probably have about five minutes, ten if I'm lucky, before he returns to give me poop updates.

It's Labor Day weekend. We all stayed up late watching TV and my daughter fell asleep on our newly-acquired LoveSac. My dog, Pumba, was sleeping peacefully on the couch when I dragged my carcass to bed so I left him there.

Big mistake.

Pumba deals with his Where-The-Hell-Is-Mommy anxiety by defecating and urinating on the carpet. He prefers high-traffic areas where unsuspecting humans discover his protests by stepping on them. Sometimes, he steps on the poop and trails it around the house.

And so, yet again, I start my morning with cleaning up shit. I'm a mother, though, and well trained in poop and pee patrol. Little did I know that dogs are really furry three-year-olds who need to be potty trainedforever.
I get out of bed and pull on some clothes near the bed, forego undies, and go into the hallway.

I pick up the poop with wads of toilet tissue and deposit it in a bathroom trashcan. I take out the bagwe use plastic grocery store bags for our waste depositories thank you very muchand stumble toward the stairs. When I get to the living room, Reid's on the couch devouring his blackmail treat and watching cartoons. Katie's on the LoveSac, mouth open, limbs askew, enjoying the lovely confines of sleep. I bump her. Jostle her. Shake her. Her eyelids flutter open.

"If your chores aren't done this morning, you can forget spending the night at your friend's house," I say. "The dishes aren't going to do themselves. Your room is a pit and your bathroom isn't fit for drunken elves to use."

Her eyes close.

"Katie!"

"I heard you," she answers. "Dishes. Bedroom. Drunk elves."

"Good girl," I pause, guilt attacking me. "By the way, good morning. I love you."

Her soft snore greets me. Maybe she won't remember my Chore Verbal Assault when she wakes up.

My husband, whose job took him to California and left me in the seventh ring of housewife hell, is not here. He's driving in late tonight and, worried about the stress level of my voice when we last we spoke, promised to help with all the crap piling up around the house.

Except dog crap, of course.

I find Pumba's second present in the dining room. He's peed in the hallway, too. I find this out because I step in it. I yell at him, but it does no good. He knows I'm mad, and why, and skulks off to a corner to look at me with sad doggie eyes.

I hate it when he does that.

This morning is a lot like most mornings. I look at the house that always need cleaning, the pets who always need tending, the kids who wants meals and toys and cures for boredom hmmm I could clear out the bank account and fly to Tahiti and get a buff houseboy name Roberto to wait on me hand and foot.

Then the cat yaks on the floor next to my foot and damnI'm home again.

Learn more about this author, Michele Bardsley.
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