I figured I’d multi-task. You know, mom’s are pro’s at that anyway. I plopped my daughter in the tub and scrubbed her up so she could play in the water. She loves that. Brother decided he wanted to hop in the bath with her, so cool – 2 kids, one bath, what could be better? I had the brilliant idea to vacuum while she was taking a bath because she is terrified of the vacuum. I figured she’s safe in the bathroom with her brother, I can pull the door shut so the sound isn’t as bad, get the vacuuming done, throw dinner in the oven … I’m jammin’! Before I pulled out the vacuum, I threw a chicken in to cook. My little girl was alarmed when I started vacuuming but Doddie was comforting, “It’s okay, Honey, it’s just the vacuum, it won’t hurt you!” (Honey is his pet name for her. )I was cruising along, sucking up the crap that gets strewn around my living room thanks to said daughter. She loves food, and it ends up everywhere! Crumbs galore! She hasn’t figured out yet that I wouldn’t have to pull out that big scary vacuum so often if she wasn’t so messy! But she’s 3, what’re ya gonna do?
I’m humming along to the tunes in my head (sans iPod!), feelin’ proud, feelin’ industrious … and things seemed to be getting a little smoky. No big. I figured it was just the chicken since I’d spiced it different than usual. Hummin’ … boppin’ … vacuumin’ … that was me, on top of the SAHM housewife world.
Suddenly – like it’s ever a planned thing, right? – the smoke detectors started their hideously loud beeping.
Less than half a heartbeat later, the kids started screaming bloody murder from the bathroom. And I do mean screaming! I thought for sure, between the smoke alarm and the screaming, my head was going to explode into millions of tiny pieces.
Sometimes I wonder how my brain manages to process things. What to do first? I seem to have a crisis on my hands! Well, first of all, you have to be in charge, you know, especially with little ones around, so of course I started screaming at them to stop screaming. Naturally that had no impact whatsoever. I turned off the vacuum, ran to turn off the oven and since I didn’t see any flames, I went to tend to the kids. They were still screaming by the time I got there, like 10 seconds later. An eternity!
I scrubbed up my son, who always screams whenever I bathe him. I have no idea why! He always acts like I’m going to drown him or something. “DON’T GET WATER IN MY EYES!” “Doggone it, you are 6 years old and I have NEVER gotten water in your eyes! Why do you always say that?!?!? Like you even know what it’s like to get water in your eyes!” Finally I got them both out of the tub. That made my daughter scream because she likes to sit and play in the water. Oh the fits she throws when bathtime is over! Is it any wonder why I hate giving my kids a bath?
Had to get them dressed you know, can’t have them running around naked – especially the toddler who’s not yet potty trained. That took a while but once done, I went to see what the HELL was wrong with my chicken. I mean come on! I’d just put it in! There was no WAY it was burning! I took it out of the oven, it was still raw of course, checked everything I could see – can’t find the problem! I stood there for maybe 10 minutes, trying to figure it out – wire maybe? Do I need to call management to have them take care of my stove? Suddenly it dawned on me. The day before I’d crisped up some brats for my Beloved to take in his lunches, and the grease-laden foil was still in the broiler drawer under the oven. D’OH! Gah! I hate the broiler! So I took that culprit out and put the chicken back in, turned the oven back on and smelled only the scent of the spices I’d used. Well, except for that smoky smell that lingered in the place.
Then, of course, I still had to finish vacuuming. I loathe vacuuming. It’s a long story and perhaps I’ll blog about it one day, but you know once I turned that beastie back on my daughter started screaming again and ran to hide under whatever covers she could find. But finish I did, dammit, because I was on a mission by that time.
Finally! Dinner was cooking – again. The kids were bathed. The house was picked up and the vacuuming was done. Sigh. Time to SMOKE! Me, not the oven. I EARNED that cigarette doggone it! I stomped off to the “smoking room” and sent my husband a text message: “Dinner’s going to be late, Babe. It’s a long story.”