Where's Waldo?

I'm all about experimentation, and yesterday we decided to try our hand at something new.



Getting this kid to take a reasonable nap at a reasonable hour. What were you thinking? Pervs.

Anyway, I got her all tucked in and then came downstairs. She seemed ready, she seemed tired, and I was certain systems were go. I went in the kitchen and started washing the 2 days worth of dishes. I spent a while in there, sweeping the floors and scrubbing the countertops, you know, things I only do annually, or if my mother in law is coming over normal cleaning up.

I was in there for about an hour when I heard a little, well, noise. From upstairs. Whatever; I'm ignoring her. I went out for a smoke a bit of fresh air and then I went back into the kitchen to finish up. After that, I didn't hear anything. Like, nothing. Like, dead silent. "Awww," I thought, "she's gotten back into her bed and fallen asleep. Such a big girl. Awwww." I go up to check on here.

Slowly, quietly, I inch the door open, careful not to wake the sleeping princess.

No dice. Empty bed. Still silence, though. Hmmm.

"She must have crawled into 2of3's bed for a nap," I thought. "It IS her favorite place to sleep." And down the hall I went to gaze upon my beautiful child, who clearly just missed her big brother.

Yeah, not there either.

A small, mitigated wave of something vaguely resembling panic coursed through me. See, she has this habit of sneaking out of the house and climbing into my car and turning on every fucking light, so that by the time I notice, the fucking battery's dead, and then running into the back yard to swing.. Not really the biggest deal (we live in Suburban Utopia) but we do have a largish creek right behind the house and there has been quite a bit of rain lately.


I stood, silently, eyes closed, listening for One. Single. Sound. Nothing. And then I turned and looked at the bathroom door. CLOSED. LIGHT ON. Full blown terror shot through me. That's what I get for fucking being a decent mother and washing the fucking dishes instead of sitting on my ass blogging. My kid has drown to death in the toilet. I turned and TORE down the stairs to the washroom, threw the door wide open as hard as I could, and saw this:

Well, that's not actually what I saw. What I saw was that disgusting child completely behind the glass doors, hands over her face, pants F.U.L.L. of poop, hiding from me. Silent as the grave.

I shrieked, and I don't know if it was out of relief or horror. I'm betting it was a bit of both. I slid the door of the shower open, touched her face just to be sure, and then turned to grab my camera. (Come on, you know me better than to think I wouldn't by now), and that's when I saw this:

You know when something really, truly terrifying happens to you or someone you love, and 2.53 seconds after the relief hits you that they're okay, the rage hits you? Yeah, something almost just like that happened. This was, by far, the least awesome scavenger hunt I've ever been on. I don't know what I was more angry about, all the scrubbing my husband I was going to have to do later, or the fact that I was forced to throw away the last remnant of my young, angsty past:

The best part? My husband, who had been gone all day, walked in not 5 minutes after I found her, when the living room still looked like a tornado had blown through it, the bathroom looked like THAT and the kid (and me, merely from proximity) looked like we'd just spent a good, hearty day loading Sixteen Tons*. Good thing he doesn't pay me for this gig....pretty sure I'd have been fired on the spot.

*Yep, full aware that half of you won't get that and the other half will chuckle at me for so grossly dating myself. Thanks.