“This story will make my husband 1000% fall back in love with me.”
It’s been about 3.5 weeks since this all happened, and I finally feel strong enough to talk about it. So…let’s just dive right in.
September 13th, 2019.
2:00 a.m.
Y’all, I LOVE a good thunderstorm. I’m lying in bed, half asleep, listening to the sweet, thundery drip-drip against my window, thinking, Damn, I love a good storm. My brain briefly registers the open poo bag containing seven days’ worth of Rudy’s chocolate hostages, but I shrug it off. No worries. It’s Friday. Fridays are for winners.
(I was wrong. So very wrong.)
7:23 a.m.
Quinn gently wakes me up. And by “gently,” I mean she drives a Wet Brush as deeply as humanly possible into my left breast.
“MOM!!! The basement is…like…leaking!”
“Christ, Quinn…what does that even mean? Did you pee? Did you pee the basement?”
“Ummmm…no, Mom. It’s raining down there.”
7:24 a.m.
Why is this my life?
From here on out, time stops making sense. The next 90 minutes blur together into pure chaos. I call Kev. Actually—no—I hate calling. I text him, because I am an adult who communicates exclusively through panic-typed nonsense. As you can clearly see, I am an absolute wordsmith.
By 7:30-something, my basement is flooding and my kids need to catch the bus in about 30 minutes. Who am I kidding? What’s a bus? I drive their sorry, late asses every single day anyway. Moving along…
Kev has me messing with a bunch of electrical bullsh*t, and at this point I’m convinced he’s testing my will to live. Sir, I am a housewife—not Bob Vila. Meanwhile, the kids still need to get ready, I’m spiraling, and he’s having me plug random things into the sump pump outlet to see if it’s the pump or the…receptacle. Yes, I’m now casually using words like receptacle, questioning my new career as an electrician.
After 15 minutes of failed experiments, I come to an important realization: I am, in fact, still just a housewife. And I am not good at things.
At some point, I try plugging a phone charger into the same outlet. As I do, I fall backward. No worries—just a rug. (Remember this. It will matter later.)
Now the kids have 20 minutes to be 100% ready, which is impressive considering they can only wipe their asses about 10%. Quinn’s hair feels “junky,” her sock seams are not aligned with the moon and stars, Penny is a helpless disaster who can’t pour milk because it’s “too heavy” for her tiny T-Rex arms, and their teeth look like they’re wearing winter cardigans. I truly give zero sh*ts. Wear whatever feral outfit you’ve assembled. I cannot judge anyone’s appearance today. You’ll soon understand why.
I run upstairs and somehow pull two lunches directly out of my ass. Used water bottles, Captain Crunch, a Starburst, and what may or may not have been a three-week-old nurse’s ice pack go into their lunch bags. Crushing the mom game.
We stumble to the car. Rudy insists on coming because being more than 10 feet away from my vagina sends him into cardiac arrest. Fine. We have seven minutes to get to school. NO PROBLEM.
(Insert countdown to actual problem.)
We pull into the drop-off line. Listen—I’m a tuck-and-roll kind of mom. I want them OUT immediately. And then I hear it.
“Mom…my hair.”
SON. OF. A. B*TCH.
I jump out of the car. Not curbside. No. I fully exit, blocking traffic, pajama-clad, to fix a quick VSCO bun. As I’m absolutely KILLING the messy bun game, I hear it.
Wait for it.
“Mom…why are you wearing Dad’s underwears? MOM!!! Get back in the car!”
Y’all. I am standing in the school drop-off line fixing my hair in a pair of Hanes boxer briefs and a tank top three sizes too small. And not just boxers. Boxer briefs. The kind with a literal house for the penis and balls. A HOUSE. I now have a penis.
Jesus be near, because I am not okay.
It somehow gets worse. I leave, hit Dunkin’ because there is no universe where I survive this Friday uncaffeinated, and come home to take the now-infamous photo. You’re welcome. Remember that rug I fell on earlier?
Yeah. Neat.
At this point, I need a life coach. Or an exorcism.
I head to the closet to find pants. In the 3.5 seconds it takes to grab them, the doorbell rings. It’s the plumber—whom I completely forgot I called. What do I do? I sprint downstairs, because my Dory-sized brain forgot to process the very important step of putting on new pants before answering the door.
You’re welcome, Steve. Hope you enjoy my penis-house pants.
Steve goes downstairs. Steve comes upstairs. Steve needs a part and leaves.
Coffee kicks in. I assume I have at least 15 minutes.
Guess who’s wrong? Me.
Steve comes BACK while I’m in the middle of a full-blown Colombian hot sloppy. Important note: my bathroom is literal inches from the front door. I jump up and slam the door. He apologizes. I come out and let him in. Now he not only gets a repeat viewing of my existence, but also has to walk straight through my fresh, steamy poo cloud.
Perfection. Please enroll me in witness protection. I no longer wish to be me.
I don’t remember anything else from that day. But I can assure you—it stayed sh*tty. (Pun fully intended.)
Feel free to share with dysfunctional parents everywhere.
