I had found a rhythm for housework, things were getting done. The baby was asleep, I had finally sorted through a large quantity of laundry. It was time to tackle vacuuming. My young son freaks when I pull the vacuum out. He seems to be mistaking it for…something cool. He sees the vacuum cleaner and starts to wrap his entire body around it, putting his little fingers in the screw crevices, like a starfish clings desperately to a rock. He looks up at me with his big brown eyes and begs heart and soul for a turn to vacuum.
It would be the perfect set up: me sitting around, while my two year-old joyously cleans my carpets, but the thing is too heavy for him. Whenever his “turn” rolls around it consists of him using ever fiber in his body to push it while the bottom part that actually vacuums salutes the air. It’s hard to explain. Basically he is too short to use it, so I still have to do it. Boo.
Despite the fact that my kid had turned into a cold (a virus that won’t let go of your body for several days) while trying to access the vacuum (hereafter referred to as Mr. Sucky because there aren’t acronyms for the word “vacuum” and it’s getting redundant), I managed to get exactly HALF of my carpet cleaned before something happened. A phone call? A potty break? I don’t remember. The point is, I turned my back on my Mr. Sucky. Whenever I stop doing something, it takes me a while to return. Example: I have put toilet bowl cleaner in my toilet twice now, walked away and didn’t return to scrub it until the cleaner had actually disappeared from multiple flushes.
I finally remembered that I had left Mr. Sucky in the living room and decided to retire him to his closet. Q had gone on to bigger and better things involving a giant stick and a small Yorkshire Terrier. I walked over to the contraption and noticed that it had been stabbed in the back by my turkey baster. I thought about taking a picture of the crime scene but I was too lazy/busy (it’s possible, ask any mom). So, just imagine. It’s one of those things you don’t see unless you have a two year old boy who is literally obsessed with your vacuum…and your turkey baster.
Later that day, I noticed something on my lawn. It was my turkey baster. That thing has been a lot of places. I mean, just in one day it has traveled from the bowels of Mr. Sucky to the moist underbelly that is our overgrown lawn.
In previous times I have found the turkey baster shoved up a young nose (“I’m sucking out my boogies momma!), in the bathtub, in Thomas the Train Tent, abandoned in a lonely hallway with bits of string cheese inside of it…my turkey baster has led a life of adventure, with danger at every turn.
Thanksgiving is at my house this year. Were you wondering how I got such complex notes in my turkey gravy?