About an hour passes, and the Mikester starts to fuss. Realizing his dire need for a diaper change, I hand the Wii control over to Chris and tote the little guy upstairs. Our changing "station" is located in the upstairs hallway just outside the kiddies' room. It makes for some very convenient middle-of-the-night changes when i don't want to wake the other kiddies. . . But I digress. I start to undress Michael when a horrible and very unwelcome smell assaults my nostrils. It was NOT coming from the sweet little child on the changing table. I grimace as I realize it is drifting out from the kiddies' room. "Oh, Lord, please let me not be too late!" I silently pray as I swing open the door.
Squeamish folks may want to skip this paragraph, although words can scarcely describe what I see next. The beige carpet is liberally dotted with brown. Brown smears gracefully swirl across bed headboards and crib railings. All bedding is covered in random streaks of the foul-smelling stuff, and dozens of Little People are stoically smiling at me underneath their crusty covering. The curtains, books, and toy kitchen have not been left untouched. I look at the two grinning children standing at the door - faces, arms, hands, and feet smudged with poop! "Momma, I make a mess!" David says proudly. "Oh my . . . " I weakly step back, shut the door, and shout, "Chrisser!"
A grunt comes from the man furiously trying to conquer the next track. "Chrisser!" I shout again. "You are not going to believe this! Come up here!" My man abandons his game and joins me at the kiddies' door. Together we stare silently at the impossible mess. Gone is our afternoon of relaxing. It's go time!
I herd the children into the bathtub while Chris starts sorting things into "touched" and "untouched" piles. After scrubbing off a few layers of the kiddies' skin, I put them in the corner with grave admonishments of "don't move a muscle!" Then I tackle the endless pile of soiled toys and books while Chris drags out our carpet extractor and proceeds to work on the room itself. Three hours later, we are exhausted and praying that the carpet dries in time for the kiddies to go to bed.
But it doesn't end there . . .
Sunday morning arrives, and although the Mikester and I are still not up to par healthwise, we manage to get the entire family out the door and to church in time. After church, we make a quick stop at CostCo for formula and some lunch and then head home. The kiddies fall asleep in the van, making it easy to transition them into their room for an afternoon nap. Chris hits the computer while I curl up on the couch, hoping against hope that the Philadelphia Eagles might pull off a win in the National Football League Championship.
Periodically I check in on the kiddies, who miraculously revive from their van nap and are now playing enthusiastically with the remaining toys in their bedroom. At a quarter to five, Chris heads upstairs to get ready for the evening service. "Please check in on the kids - it sounds like they're fighting again!" I call up to him. I watch as the Eagles tie up the score and then surge ahead. I yell "Touchdown!" and then realize I am not the only one yelling. So is Chris, and he does not sound happy. I race upstairs to see whatever is the matter, and I kid you not, folks, it had happened again! Only worse!
My group was singing a special in church that evening, so I frantically bathe the kids at record speed. Chris comes into the bathroom and announces that he will not be going to church with us. The cleaning would take too long. The kiddies and I arrive home from church a few hours later to find him still cleaning their room. Unhappy doesn't even begin to describe what that poor man was feeling at that moment. . .
And guess who has a mountain of brown laundry to do today??
If I didn't actually see it, I would have never believed it. . .