Bubble Guts

I have to get this down so that my defense attorney can use this post as evidence should I end up on the evening news with a severely maimed husband.

Let me set the stage for the series of this evenings unfortunate events:

1. Remember the mudroom my husband started two months ago. Well, he has tons of wood crap from this (still unfinished) project piled on his side of the garage - that actually makes his garage door impossible to open.

2. My husband flat out refuses to wipe the kitchen table after any meal, despite this being our arrangement and his part of the bargain. It drives me crazy. More than the power of eleventy hundred billion burning suns, it drives me bat ass crazy.

Saturday: Scary Mommy writes a post about Chinese Food. I read this post and think "Mmm. Chinese food sound good. I haven't had that in a while." I convince my reluctant family to indulge with me.

Sunday Morning: I wake up with cramps and a gurgling in my belly, and have a dreading feeling of what my day will hold (or not hold, if you know what I mean).

I spend my Sunday barely able to contort my body out of the fetal position long enough to make frantic dashes to the bathroom. What happened in that bathroom was unfamiliar even to me. I've never experienced... that. It continues into the night. I'll spare you any details more graphic.

Monday: I wake up feeling okay. Much better than Sunday, so I think the worst of the Chinese dinner has passed. I get on with my day; drop the kids off at school, go to work.

Fine. Let's establish right now that the McDonald's I ate for lunch probably wasn't the best idea, but I honestly thought I was better.

So, the afternoon pretty much sucked. I did not make very nice friends with the ladies room at my office. I was eager to get home and curl up in the fetal position again.

I decided to grab Chik Fil-A for the kids for dinner since I knew I would make no attempt at an actual dinner. I pick up the food, then the cranky kids, then head home. A phone call en route and my husband informs me that he will be really late getting home (fanfuckingtastic).

We pull into the garage (my side) and I feel "it" coming on again. Slowly building up. I think that I may have enough time to get the kids settled with their dinner so that I can bolt upstairs and unleash the fury.

I hurry Grant out of the van. As I'm running to Cannon's side, I hit the garage button to close the door. I hit the wrong button and *open* Josh's side. The wood he has piled against the door scrapes and crashes and blocks the door, now making it impossible for me to close it - even if I wanted to, besides the fact that Idon'thavethatkindoftime!

"Whatever" I think. "I'll leave it for Josh."

I get Cannon out of the van and two seconds with his feet on the floor and he bolts out of the open door, scurrying down the sidewalk. For a couple of seconds, I actually contemplated just leaving him. I thought about running inside and calling a neighbor from the safety of the toilet seat and asking someone to fetch my child.

But, proper parenting wins; there are some Mario Andretti's that fly down my street and the little man wouldn't have a chance. So, with butt cheeks tightly clenched, and doing sort of a straight backed run, I chase the little bastard boy down the sidewalk.

He kicks and screams and crys. It takes everything I have to just.get.him.inside, lock the door and scream down the hall to the downstairs bathroom. There is no time for shutting the bathroom door, much less getting them occupied with a meal.

I actually make it. I sit down and start laughing. Cannon, still crying but fascinated with the "potty process" starts handing me teeny bits of toilet paper. Grant begins a school story for me, but after a few exaggerated sniffs into the air declares "Mom! That's a-scusting!" I'm actually, literally, laughing my ass of.

Hysterical, right?

Until the DOORBELL rings! To the outside door, with GLASS PANES that are about 10 feet from where I sit. It is only a slight chance of an angle that our visitor can't look right in and see exactly what is happening inside.

Naturally, the boys run right to the door and wave. I scream at them not to open the door, so instead Grant takes his wooden cork pop gun thing (that the Easter bunny left) and points it at this visitor and says "Who are you?!" To which Cannon Repeat repeats "Who are you?!" They are seriously both standing at my door, yelling repeatedly "who are you" at some poor person on the other side.

I'm horrified. I have no idea what to do. Naturally whoever it is knows I'm home because the effing garage door is wide open. Oh, and my kids are standing there yelling at him. Since I had to use the downstairs bathroom, I don't even want to imagine what my foyer actually smells like right now.

Fuck.

I take care of business, flip on the fan and shut the door, ready to shoo away whatever grimey little kid is trying to sell something.

It's not a grimey little kid.

It's an INVESTIGATOR*. Here for the SIX O'CLOCK APPOINTMENT THAT MY HUSBAND SET UP FOR ME.

There he stands. Suit and tie and a badge.

I have no idea what to do. I let him in, convinced that I'm about to be arrested since my house smells like dead carcasses.

The boys start crying. I'm trying to keep my ass tightly clenched, feed the kids dinner, and answer questions.

Fabulous. I'm throwing frys and nuggets on a tray, we are out of milk and THERE IS DRIED OATMEAL ALL OVER THE TABLE THAT THIS MAN IS SITTING AT BECAUSE MY HUSBAND REFUSED TO WIPE IT DOWN AFTER BREAKFAST.

I nervously stand at the table the entire time because there is no.way I can sit. I'm nervous. I'm sweaty. I'm uncomfortable. My eyes are glassy. I shift from foot to foot. I put my hand on my hips, then cross my arms across my chest. I'm fidgety and so 'suspicious'.

To his credit, I know that this man hurried things along. We have been through these before and they usually are much longer. But still. I'm sure that whatever he suspected was going down in our house, his imagination wasn't taking him down the diarrhea trail.

I'm sure that agents will bombard my house looking for my dead husband any minute.

And my husband may very well wind up dead for setting that appointment. Just because I'm home by six doesn't mean that I have time to sit and chat. {hissing and spatting and foaming at the mouth}

And I'm sure I will still have bubble guts. Even in jail.

*Investigators were asking questions about some neighbors, the details of which I shouldn't go into. But once again, I write here promising you that I am not actually some raging criminal.