This Woman's Work

This entry will likely come off as complaining, but I prefer to think of it as "venting."


As I awoke to the sound of my dog barking at 3 a.m. for the fifth night in a row, it occurred to me that somewhere along the line I must have drawn the short straw.  Or maybe I lost a game of rock, paper, scissors?  Did I lose a bet? Perhaps it is karma playing tricks on me?  Whatever it was means I get the shit end of the stick for all eternity. 


Because when the dog barks in the middle of the night, I get to be the one to go downstairs and let him out.  Same goes for any number of other middle-of-the-night occurrences whether it be crying, screaming, spitting up, puking, projectile vomiting,  nightmares, or aforementioned feedings (see previous entry entitled "BOOBIES.")  Which then leaves me wide awake in bed thinking about all of these things.


And it doesn't end with middle-of-the-night antics.  Any variety of daily activities that fall under the category of "dirty jobs, but somebody's gotta do it" belong to yours truly.


I change 99% of the dirty diapers.  I walk the dogs, which means I get to carry a hot bag of crap around the neighborhood.  I clean the litter box.  I wipe Maddie after she goes potty.  I give baths which means cleaning up pee or poo based on Colin's lack of bladder and bowel control once I turn on the bath tub.  I wipe up boogers and when the boogers get really bad, they usually mean someone gags on them and throws up.  Like tonight at dinner.  


I'm the one who scrubs the toilet that comes with any variety of disgusting elements.  I clean out the drains in the sinks that have some inexplicable black gunk that I am pretty sure is a fatal fungus that was featured in an episode of "House" capable taking out an entire civilization. 


Tupperware left at work for several weeks that hasn't been washed out?  Right here.  Cat spits up a hair ball?  Bring it on.  The highchair with crusted food all over it and in every crevice? Love it. Dustbunnies that could create another pet that I need like a hole in my head?  Oh me, please! Boxer shorts that should be considered grounds for divorce?  All mine, baby.


The other night I was cleaning up after dinner and heard a strange sound.  It sounded a bit like a breeze coming through the window, but the windows were closed.  Then I realized it was accompanied by the sound of liquid hitting the ground.  Then I heard Colin.  Turns out he had managed to pull down a 2 liter of pop that Tom left on the kitchen table without the cap.  I will give you 3 guesses who cleaned up that one. Ok, never mind,  you only get one.  Yup. Me.  Luckily it was Diet Cherry Dr. Pepper and I was also able to achieve a nice Cherry finish on my hardwood floor.  


And then like an angel sent from God, I walk in to my house the other day and the kitchen is immaculate.  The table is cleared of mail, toys and miscellaneous crap.  No recycling on the edge of the counter waiting to go out.  No dishes on the side of the sink, or in the sink, or even in the drying rack.  And there is Tom, scrubbing the fingerprints off the stainless steel refrigerator.  I love this man and suddenly all the poop, puke, pee, dustbunnies, gunk, pop, boogers, fungus and yes, even toxic boxer shorts disappear.  I can only wonder what bet I actually won?