This is Why We Can't Have Nice Things

Yesterday was one of those days. You know the kind where you would sell a kidney for five minutes of bathroom peace? When you're a stay at home mom, a lot of days are like that. I'm not saying that there aren't moments that make it worth all the sacrifice and I'm not saying that I won't look back on this in twenty years and realize that staying at home was the best decision I ever made. I'm just saying that some days I miss my confident career self. Yesterday was one of those days. 

It all began with one of those foolhardy moments where I thought I had things under control. A morning of teething fueled screaming had given way to the bliss of a napping baby and Emily absorbed in the edutainment wonder that is Sesame Street. That's when I made my fatal mistake.

I decided to clean the doors and baseboards and if I was going to do it, I may as well do it right. Why wouldn't I use the best tool for the job? That's what I told myself as I reached for my favorite white jug with the blue cap - the one that should have been labeled "Bottled Destruction" but was instead labeled "Clorox".

A tablespoon or two. That's all I added to the small dish of water I used for dipping my cleaning rag and that's all I needed to make all the baseboards on the first floor sparkling clean. I made my way around the house enjoying the bleachy smell that was faintly wafting up from my clean baseboards. Last of all I moved into the living room - the final island of carpet on the main floor of our house. Only a fool would bring a tub of bleach water into a carpeted area and I'm no fool. That's why I left it in the kitchen - going back to dip as needed.

Soon, the job was complete. I was done with my rag and didn't want to risk it ending up on the floor, so I carefully carried it to the laundry room. I emerged just in time to see Emily become bored with  Sesame Street, leap off the couch and careen towards that tub of bleach water in the kitchen like it was some sort of small child magnet. I yelled for her to stop. It was in vain. I was too late. She had already tripped over the tub and accidentally kicked it, sending it flying several feet. It came to a rest on the living room carpet.


This is what bleach looks like on a carpet (it's the yellow areas).

This is what bleach looks like on brand new pants that have only seen two hours of wear.

This is what the stain looks like after we skipped the kids' play time in favor of a rug shopping excursion.

I am currently composing a strongly worded letter to PBS in which I vow never to support them no matter how alluring their offers of tote bags and concert DVD's become. I am disgusted at the irresponsibility of the editors in including a segment that failed to keep my daughter where she belonged- riveted to the television. Yesterday Sesame Street, PBS and television in general let me down and pushed Emily into a life of crime.

On the other hand, sometimes these things happen. And if my parents can forgive me for "washing" the car with a wire brush, perhaps someday I can forgive Emily for ruining a pair of clearance pants and a carpet that has seen better days. And in twenty years, I will not only be glad I was at home with Emily yesterday, I will laugh about it. But not today. The wound is still too fresh.