Ah, yes, Home Sweet Trenches. There was no easing into it, that's for sure. Hit with 23 degree weather right from the get-go, piles of laundry, and little boyz very eager for parental attention (not a bad thing, that). It just sorta smacks you in the face though. Damn reality.
(Hmmm...perhaps if I had insisted that Hubby wear a golf shirt, khaki shorts, a name tag and a visor and acted as my cabana boy, coming around every 20 minutes and asking me if I need another cocktail...that may have eased the transition a bit...)
So Saturday morning, Hubby and Eldest returned his football uniform (Hear the choir of angels singing? That was a LONG-ASS season - from August to November.) and hit the grocery store for provisions. After that, the 5 of us were holed up in the Trenches to enjoy a Family Day with no obligations, commitments or having-to-be-somewheres.
[As an aside, remember how I casually mentioned a few posts ago that Baby was somewhat "regressing" in the potty training department? So when my parents came into town to babysit, I did them the courtesy of buying more Pull-Ups and warning them to USE THEM on him at night. Which they did. And, of course, he had NO accidents. Neither night nor day. None. Zero. Zilch. Nada.]
[Silly me, I thought we were in the clear.]
Anyway, back to Saturday night. The boyz were all in their pj's. I was in the kitchen, getting ready to make Eldest a milkshake for dessert. We were going to watch Alvin & the Chipmunks at 7....
I glanced up from my milkshake preparation. Middle had scuttled into the kitchen. But what was that? There was something brown smeared on the top of his bare foot. I put down the ice cream scoop and lifted Middle up by the armpits and sat him on the kitchen table. And looked at the brown spot.
Firmly entrenched in denial, my mind raced with thoughts of, "Now how did he get chocolate on his foot? Or perhaps it's dirt? Yes, that MUST be it."
Yet the rational part of me knew immediately, "IT'S.SHIT. ON.HIS.FOOT. OH.MY.GOD."
But I didn't dare to confirm.
"Hubbbbbbbbbbby!" I yelled, "Come here NOW!"
Meanwhile Eldest was hovering over Middle, gaping and gawking at the schmear. Baby was just standing there, doe-eyed. And I was trying not to gag.
Hubby entered the kitchen.
I pointed at Middle's foot. "Look."
He immediately took Middle's foot in his hand, leaned down and took a whiff. And as he lifted, I noticed more brown. On the bottom of Middle's foot as well.
Hubby and I were flabbergasted. Where did this come from? It couldn't be blamed on the poor ol' family dog because we have no pets. And unfortunately, verrrrry unfortunately, our living room carpeting is DARK BLUE, so there's a lot of blending in.
"WHO POOPED??" Hubby bellowed. (Bad cop)
No verbal responses. Just lots of wide eyes and adamant head shaking.
So I asked soothingly, "Did someone have an accident? It's okay. You just need to tell us." (Good cop)
Loud protestations this time from Eldest and Middle. Baby furiously sucked his thumb.
Dammit. Time to check for evidence. Via body cavity.
Of course Baby was the most obvious suspect. So I grabbed him by the nape of his neck and yanked down his britches. And noticed the skid mark. Ding! Ding! Ding! We have a winner!
I got down on my knees, put my hands on his shoulders, looked into his now teary and GUILTY eyes and asked sternly, "Did you poop in your unders?"
"Yes", he sobbed. "When I was playing with the pirate ship. And then I was running and it just fell out."
Gag. Ack. Time for a treasure hunt.
So yes, that's how we spent our Saturday night. Crawling around, searching for rogue poopies.
And all I could hear was Ty Pennington's voice in my head saying, "Welcome home, Sarah. Welcome home."