Whiff!

Saturday morning, I get to sleep in! Yippeee for me…ugh…it is a “hurts to move morning.” The kids are asleep…well two of them are. The TV is blaring in the background and the other two are glued to watching Roadrunner do his thing with Acme dynamite. I carefully step into the dining room with fifthteen dozen little matchbox cars everywhere, and G.I. Joe plastic green soldiers, holding bayonets, lying in mass slaughter from the previous nights “war”. I groan and think, “am I ready to face this yet? No…where‘s my coffee?” Stumbling through the maze of bayonets I groggily head to the kitchen and snag the percolator, gingerly setting the pot up to perk a merry tune that is music to my slowly awakening ears.

I am not ready to deal with “prime time kids” yet. Semi-comatose I lean on the counter and blankly stare in space at the wallpaper. The wallpaper is still a blur and then my vision clears a little bit, and I see all the places that need re-gluing. I am not a morning person. The senses have not fine-tuned yet. Of course it helps if the system was on…I was not “on” yet. No coffee to get the antennae going. The sixth sense was still slumbering and I already was seeing dead people… I had already seen my reflection in the glass hutch. I was not amused…silently I mentally groaned…”good morning goddess”…At eight months in the pregnancy I felt like a beached whale doing time with other unruly inmates, my children. Bless their little sweet video game playing souls! I could hear the coffee pot singing and the sweet aroma of fresh coffee brewing. Oh bliss, there is life waiting to be sipped! I just might survive them this morning…I take a quick glance at my girls laying on the floor with every cushion taken off the sofa and newspapers flung randomly off the coffee table. I rethink…maybe not.

Then disaster struck! I mistakenly looked at the garbage can…my stomach did a funny little dance…a strange taste crept up the back of my throat…my eyes filled with water…I took shallow little breathes…and murmured carefully, “you will be alright, just take little breathes this will pass…don’t look at the garbage can…no." I had learned to coach myself through these phases of morning sickness. Mind you I had not smelled anything yet, just the thought of it made me sick. Ohhhh it was going to be a FINE morning I could tell. Again I thought, "where’s my coffee?"

My survival needs of the fittest Prego woman, with cup in hand sipping at life giving brew, drowning out morning sickness with Folgers quick fix at whatever ails you. Coffee drowned out the worst of the worst smells, or imagined smells. At this point in my pregnancy it really did not matter…all smells got me right where I lived…in my stomach.

The culprit who had caused this little “growing problem” was snoring away in a wonderful, cool, dark bedroom blissfully dreaming about resistors, wires, knobs, and other wonderful things that dads dream about when they are a seriously addicted Ham Operator, that eats, breathes, sleeps, ham radio. While moi was the frequency he occasionally tuned into to create havoc, unrest, and dissention in thirty minutes or less in the wee hours of the morning, depending on the phase of the moon or the perfume I was wearing…something irresistible…I knew would get me in trouble…it did.

Hence, here I am a momma to be…again!

Ah, but fate has a way of evening out that score! It was a good thing he had a full nights rest… full tummy…great dreams, sinus problems…all stuffed up. He would need all his defenses! At last the wonderful singing pot quit its cheery thump, thump thump, thump and while reaching for a cup, I thought it might be cool to wake my hero up and pro-offer a gift from Heaven… It pays to be nice to the person you sleep with!

It paid dividends on a mass scale before the morning was over.

After a few hurried sips from my own cup, I was awake enough to skillfully carry another cup to my awaiting, sleeping, big strong man. Tiptoeing into the bedroom, with my left foot deploying a swift shove to the door…closing it immediately, I ventured to sleeping beauties bedside table and set down his cup.

“7:30, nine o’clock…time to get up…wake up…hello…earth to honey…I have purloined goods nearby…okay…I have something hot nearby…besides me!”

Nothing. Not a blink or shift of position…even the hint of early morning recreation did not stir him…the snoring did not even break in rhythm.
Frustrated, I pulled out my ace card…

”Honey you better wake up …CQ…CQ.. Mr. T is loose in the radio room and I hear wires snapping!”

With that last remark, I could feel the jolts of electricity spreading through his body as his eyes snapped open with a snarl emanating from his lips, “I’m going to kill that damned bird!” popping from his mouth. He was awake! Yea! With fire in his eyes!
All done in five minutes flat…not too shabby for a white girl! Okay, okay, I’m mixed…but we Native Americans know how to cross over a very fine line and get away with it…especially the pregnant ones. I smile. Sleep in will you…WRONG! Leave me to face four other wild and woolies first thing in the morning in my delicate condition…I don’t think so, Kimosabe!

“Now that you are awake, here is a cup of forget going back to sleep.” I say ever so sweetly to his energetic body trying desperately to get the covers off his legs… that I am sitting on…and not moving from. Again I smile…torment has its moments. He is awake…now.

“Cat…get up honey…hurry… I have to save my wires and kill a cockatiel!” He says urgently, with great frustration clearly etched on his dark shadowed, I need to shave face. His morning breath almost does me in, as waves of nausea threaten to send me racing to the bathroom…not a good sign for romance in the morning or even conversation.

“I lied.” I chirp to his distressed face. Relief immediately floods his countenance, taken placed with the “I am going to hurt you girl” look as he realizes…he has been had. Again I smile broader and say, “I have coffee. I did not lie about that. Look over on your bedside table…oh snarly one with bad breath.” Garlic from the night before has definitely left its mark, wrapping around each tooth and coating the tongue, to make early morning conversation an adventure in speaking at a safer distance with a sensitized nose, mine. Especially with morning sickness threatening to erupt forth and really getting him out of bed… quickly. After several years, and four babies later, the man knew me well enough to not push his luck. I love smart men!

Now sitting up with the covers pulled to his waist, he good-naturedly sipped on his steaming hot mug of nature’s delight. His dark hair in total disarray, with heavy black eyebrows pursed as he drank black coffee, sweetened just the way he likes it, and the occasional sniff from his poor stuffed up, I can’t smell a blasted thing nose.

I knew my man. He could forgive me anything in how I woke him up, as long as it was accompanied by a hot steaming brew waiting for his administrations of intense concentration on what we call “the finer things in life…a good cup of coffee!” See, it pays to be nice to the person you sleep with! They return the favor…

While we both sipped on our respective cups of Heaven, we chatted about our goals for the day and possibly going out to breakfast with the family…in tow. I am still sitting on the edge of the bed and my stomach has quieted down to a dull roar on the nausea. Life is good. Life is sweet. A very nice camaraderie exists between my humble self and said mate. We are enjoying each other’s company and it is so peaceful, quietly expressing anecdotes and chuckling at each other’s morning humor. Abruptly coming to a screeching halt!

“Mommmmmmmm” one of my girls yells. “I think I hear the boys up? Do you want me to get them out of the cribs?” She again enquires.

“Sure honey, go ahead and let them watch cartoons with you girls for awhile. Daddy and I are talking.”

I said innocently unaware that another disaster was lurking and about to rear its ugly head. Becoming a mother has a way of shredding innocence and illusions about the House and Garden type of home, where everything has a pristine look of cleanliness and order. You can actually find things like your keys and purse. The home is decorated with taste, fine furniture, pretty dishes and gorgeous designer curtains.

Reality check. The photographer did not have two little boys in diapers, curtain climbers, spillers; I love to draw on the end table with keys, boys… in the shots. The, I love to open the curtains from the middle… boys, with jam covered hands and chocolate candy smeared across their mouths from candy secretly snatched from the hidden jar on the top shelf. Remember I said climbers. Nothing is sacred to these two adventurers in Mom’s space! Nothing! Arghhhhhh!

Houses, homes where G.I. Joes do not exist, with pointed bayonets to step on in the middle of the night barefoot, and injure your dignity, as you dance hopping down the hallway, dodging more little pointed bayonets that you swear you will pitch in the garbage can, only to forget about it in the morning as you face OTHER ISSUES!

I was to learn this was an OTHER ISSUE morning!

“Mommmmmmmm. I think you need to come here; this is a Mom’s touch. Trust me.”

I knew when she said those words something had gone amiss, seriously! Racing thoughts gave me mental images of a busted out window, one of my son’s bleeding profusely from a major cut. Or could it be the blinds are ripped out of the wall?

“What? Dang it…what?” I said to the air, as I knew she did not hear me. The little wench did not stick around long enough to question or explain.

“Oh Lord, what is it now?” I said irritated. “Much ado about nothing, I’m sure.” I knew my idyllic moments with my husband were curtailed now. Rising wearily from sitting on the bed, I stretched, yawned and grinned as I headed for the door with my husband sighing and smiling behind me. “Yell if you need help. I’m getting up anyway and getting dressed. I know those two hooligans have done something to upset their sister. Be right behind you in a few!” He said between sips of his fast cooling coffee.

“Otay, I will be counting on you to be there and rescue me from the beasties!” I quipped as I strode out into the hall, heading for the closed bedroom door of my adorable little guys. Lorie was not far from their door in the hall waiting for me with her nose wrinkled up and a knowing look upon her face. Her eyes jubilant and dancing as my hand turned the doorknob. Did she warn me? Oh no. Just this little silent gleam of “just you wait Mom, you WILL find out look” in her eyes. Thanks kid. I knew in retrospect later, I should have paid attention to that look. I did from that point on, in later adventures with Mutt and Jeff in the morning.

I turned the doorknob and the door swung in about three inches before coming to an abrupt…stop. One whiff…that’s all it took… was one… simple… little whiff… to know I was sorry I had ever opened that door…turning my stomach inside out… having violent waves of rolling abdominal baby filled flesh send me into having the contents of my stomach to lift and rest somewhere around my thorax, crying out to be spewed forth as projectile hurling into the next dimension. I said I have a sensitized nose.

My daughter, standing at a safe distance from the door, burst out laughing at my obvious horrified discomfiture and pained expression, with my hands up around my mouth gagging, desperately trying not to retch. The little hussy thought it was sooooo funny. Mom is sick to her stomach. Mom is ready to commit child abuse as soon as the waves of nausea abate abet. Daughter is rolling on the floor laughing with tears now streaming down her face, holding her sides because they ache from laughing so hard. Mom is not amused…at all!

Stepping back quickly, I slam the door closed with the yowls of two little boys in the background, who are imitating my sons. MY SONS would NEVER do what these two little wannabes have done. Never! “Okay… I thought, “What have you done with my precious lambs…you little monsters with stinky weenies! I want them back…CLEAN!” My next thoughts were, “Oh my God have mercy on me! Whatever I did…I REPENT! Save me!” This is an, “I can’t deal with this emergency!” moment that is definitely not a Kodak moment for prosperity… Maybe for humor down the line, but this momma was not there yet! It wasn’t funny when you are in the height of the storm.

I did not hear the bedroom door open behind me or my spouse tread quietly to my side, startling me with, “What’s the matter honey? Are you all right? Lorie stop that laughing…What’s going on?” He so sweetly enquired. All I could do was point at the door and back away closer to the bathroom with my palm over my mouth. He took one look at my face, then back at the door, straightened up a little taller and said, “I will take care of this honey, you just go back to bed. The girls and I will get the boys and clean up what ever we have waiting for us.” My hero!

I dutifully limped towards our bedroom, as I heard him open the boys’ bedroom door with a gasp escaping his lips. “Oh nooooooo!” He exclaimed. “Honey you don’t even want to come out for awhile. This is quite a mess and I do mean… MESS! Girls… both of you front and center… we have a job to do.” He said in his best “I mean business tone.” Needless to say he was not met with much enthusiasm and more than a little grumbling and complaining. The cat just hid.

With a set look on his face, he strode into the bathroom, and I could hear him turning the facets on to let water run into the tub. I had not gone inside our bedroom yet, and watched him come back out from the bathroom and head for the kitchen. Quickly reaching up for the Dawn Dish soap, he wheeled around and strode back to the bathroom to squeeze some dish soap into the hot running bath water. The boys loved bubbles. He told me later he needed all the help he could get in getting past the first layer of “soiled” skin. The bubbles would distract our two little smelly boys as they played in the tub.

My smart husband had his plan of attack all worked out. Knowing our girls and their “I can’t touch poopy with my hands, dad.” stance of resistance. He handed each girl a towel with one towel draped over his shoulder. Bravely he adventured back into the boys’ room and opened all of the windows to air the place out. A brisk breeze came in through the windows and carried the scent of manure to my sensitive nostrils. That did I…no more spectating from a safe distance, the distance had suddenly become much shorter then my stomach could allow! I rushed into our bedroom and closed the door quickly, lest any more of that disgusting odor fill our room as well… leaving me no place to hide and evade these obnoxious scents.

The rest of the story is from my husband’s perspective as he narrated his “first” impressions of the disaster waiting for his timely arrival on the scene. As he quotes:

I opened the door and saw brown smears on the former white walls, giving me the impression that someday my sons would become quite artistic. Not being content with “decorating the walls“, our two little “artists” decided to paint themselves as well as their cribs, curtains and anything within reach, including toys and the bedside lamp. Both boys were smeared with thick brown goo and had handprints of the same sticky “goo” imprinted on their bodies. Both boys had poop smeared on their faces, around their mouths, on their foreheads, down their legs and feet, with their diapers hanging around each boy’s ankles. The odor he stated, he could not smell due to his sinus condition. Lucky guy! I believe this is what saved the day, his lack of smell. Or there would have been two dry heaving adults racing for the bathroom. Lucky us! Diligently he picked up what he could of children’s clothes flung on the floor from our little strip teasers, and put the soiled garments into the laundry hamper along with the two baby comforters also brown streaked.

The girls ventured in with wide eyes as the boys each reached out their arms, begging to be picked up. My husband said the girls looked uncertainly at him as to what to do. He motioned each girl to go ahead and pick one of their brothers up, but first wrap each boy in a towel. Lorie, the older of the two girls, bravely stepped forward, holding her breathe and wrapped the first little boy up, stiff armed stretched out, holding him at a distance from her chest, lifted him out of the crib than raced to the bathroom to dunk him into the tub. Shana, seeing how her sister managed to get her brother out of the crib without getting the dreaded poop on her hands or body, quickly wrapped a towel about the remaining nasty little sibling, and whisked her brother free of the crib, only to race also to the bathroom and dunk him into the tub with his splashing brother. A loud sigh of relief escaping from her mouth!

My husband proceeded with having the girls take 409 and some paper towels to start cleaning the cribs. He told them he would do the “dirty work” and scrub the boys. The girls, regaining their sense of humor quickly agreed immediately, relieved they did not have to face the two moving violations to their refined senses. With air freshener in one hand, Lorie started cleaning one of the cribs. Shana a bit shyer about touching poop, even with a paper towel protecting her hand, had to be cajoled and promised she would not die from the experience, by her sister.

So my family spent the better part of an hour doing clean up in the boys' room and the boys were well and truly scrubbed head to toe by my husband. God bless his soul! Where was I in all this challenge? Hiding in the bedroom of course or should I say the bathroom… praying to the porcelain god. I just had to think about that one…whiff!