And so dear readers, to pick up where I left off on Monday . . .
I hosted the world's most exhausting, strife-filled, emotionally-turbulent playdate known to man, in the (dumb) hopes of cheering up my dejected daughter who is the world's most glum teenager-like preschooler ever. After two and a half hours of misery, our guest Johnny's mom came to pick him up, bringing along his big bro, who is Primo's age.
I opened the door and the mom and son walked in and took off thier coats. And it was at that PRECISE moment that Seconda came running over and announced:
"MOMMY! Emergency! There is a big pile of THROW-UP under the bed!"
"What? Did someone throw up?" I asked, concerned. No, thats not true. I wasn't actually concerned, I was actually just mortified, but I acted concerned to mask my humilation.
"No, noone threw up but there is throw-up under the bed. Its old. And stinky. YUCK!"
I stood, stunned, staring at her. Was she TRYING to force me into a nervous breakdown? Could she not have discovered the puddle of dried vomit say, five minutes ago, or anytime within the last TWO AND A HALF hours I'd been hosting the kid BEFORE his mother came over? Was that not a possibility? Was I now going to have to deal with a dried pile of vomit that I somehow (how? am I that big a slob?) neglected to notice until now? The mom and her son were still taking off thier shoes for crying out loud. They'd JUST arrived.
I decided to ignore her and just pushed her back in the direction of the bedroom: "Ok, ok, go play!"
"But I can't! It smells awful because of the VOMIT!"
Well, there was no doubt now that the mom had heard the news of the vomit so I was obliged to check it out. Right then and there.
"Fine," I hissed to Sec, "I'm coming."
She led me into her room, and yes, now that she mentioned it, there was an awful smell in there, the distinct smell of sour vomit, no doubt about it. Then she pointed to a spot under the bed and I got down on my hands and knees - remember, please, that I'm 8 months pregnant -- and tried to see what was causing it, but it was dark under there, and I couldn't shimmy any closer on account of my IN-UTERO BABY. I needed a flashlight. The flashlight, of course. was not in its charger, since the kids had been playing with it. Johnny's mom was still waiting in the foyer, wondering, I suppose, how in the hell she'd ever let me take charge of her son for the afternoon.
I didn't have time to search for the flashlight to find the vomit which I probably couldn't even reach anyway, since it was under the bunk bed. Oh, and by the way - WHO THE HELL THROWS UP UNDER A BED?
In what kind of an insane household does a person not only hang out under a bunk bed but hang out enough that they find an occasion to vomit there? The whole thing was so insane, I just couldn't cope.
"Fuck it!" I decided, "The vomit's gonna have to wait!"
I strode back into my foyer and led the woman inside, offering her something to drink. I would have enjoyed a shot of whisky personally but as I said, I'm in the family way and that's not really an option for me. Her big boy son ran into the bedroom to play with Primo and -- from the sounds of it -- to rubber neck at the dried vomit.
"Mommy, aren't you going to clean this up?" Primo asked.
I shot him a look which said, "Ixnay the omitvay alktay," and tried to keep the mom from entering the bedroom where the sour stench would incontrovertibly prove how unfit I was. Really, I just wanted the nightmare playdate to be over but the mom and I were in the thick of a contest of politeness which was really working against that agenda.
"Kids, we have to go," she announced, "This poor woman is very tired. Johnny's been here a long time today."
"Oh I'm fine," i replied, "He was a delight! If your older son wants to play for a bit, its totally fine by me."
Lie. Total lie.
"Oh, maybe for a minute," she replied, "But you're so pregnant and you need to rest!"
"Oh, its not so bad!" I lied some more, "I'm feeling better now that I stopped vomiting daily."
Shit. SHIT. I had to bring up the vomit again? What was with my family and vomit?
As if on cue, Sec ran in again: "Mommy, WHO threw up under the bed? Who, Mommy? And WHY?"
"I don't know what she's talking about, " I told Johnny's mom, and then turning to Sec, "You'd better go play because your friend has to leave soon."
Then I added, to clarify that my only concern was for their well-being, "Because its dark and cold and they have a long walk home."
"Yes, yes, we'll get out of your hair," she replied.
"Whenever you're ready, " I smiled.
"MOMMY! PLEASE COME AND SEE THIS VOMIT!" screamed Primo.
At which point, I jumped up, really on the verge of nervous collapse, strode into his room and pulled him to the side:
"Not another word about this vomit until these people leave!" I whispered, "Not another word! Got it?"
Thankfully, the mom was already putting her shoes back on and corralling the kids which wasn't too hard since our house stunk to high heaven and they couldn't really wait to exit it. We bid them a fond farewell and then I rushed over to the kids room, unearthed the flashlight from a pile of bedclothes in the bottom bunk and beheld what was underneath the bed.
It was not vomit. Yes, it smelled like it but a close look revealed it was not.
It was milk, milk that had spilled out of one of the countless cups my daughter guzzles at bedtime. Its no surprise the milk spilled considering what Olympian feats my daughter undertakes at nighttime. Its only surprising we haven't had an undetected milk spill sooner.
I really had to fight the urge to run into the hallway, after Johnny's mom, to catch her and yell, "IT WASN'T VOMIT! IT WAS MILK!" in an effort to clear my name. But I have enough sense to know that would not make me seem LESS insane. There was no way to seem less insane now but to be quiet.
I turned on the TV and let the kids watch til David came home. It was one of those days. Gives a new meaning to crying over spilled milk.