And with seven monkeys in a barrel- factions emerge, converge, and implode daily. Sometimes its girls versus boys....older versus younger...light sabers versus nerf guns...those who are about to be in trouble versus those telling on them...you get the idea.
And every once in a while for what ever reason-there is one thats singled out...for all the others to pounce on.
And two days ago, I learned why it would never again be the 3 year old. And not just because she turns four in a month. No-I knew that Peter would never pick on Beth again-no matter what age she was. I also know that you can get a turtle out of a toilet with a shop vac. He'll have to spend the rest of his life on the therapist's log...but it can work.
Allow me to illuminate:
The day was a particularly gruesome one at the house on West Street. I arrived at 6:30 am to a kitchen that looked like someone had set a bomb off in a confectioners factory. Upon closer inspection I realized that the dark "chocolate" puddles everywhere were not chocolate. And that the white granulated sugar-was salt? Then I ventured over to the sink... blanche-gulp-wretch.
Its only tomatoes and apple cores.
Its only tomatoes and apple cores.
Its only tomatoes and apple cores.
But blood, bone, and flesh do not smell, look, nor clean up as easy as tomatoes and apple cores.
The father had definitely field dressed a deer in the kitchen sink. Definitely.
The blood soaked maroon sheet was still sticking out of the trash can. In horror I gazed around the set of what looked like a slasher movie....bits of gristle and bone flecks clung to the walls of the kitchen. Odd pieces of this and that floated in an ambiguous grey-brownish-pink liquid pooling at the bottom of an obviously clogged sink. The stench was fantastic.
Luckily since coming to work here nearly eight years ago now...I know a thing or two about cleaning products. Like what gets dried squirrel guts off a stainless steel sink, what gets melted barbie and batman off the oven coils, what gets the dog poo smell off a leather car seat...when the windows have been rolled up at 90 degrees for two hours. The list goes on. The local hardware store has the best selection of industrial cleaning products-they know me by name.
So-tossing my half eaten breakfast toast in the trash-along with the other half I'd already eaten-I grabbed my trusty cleaning caddy and attacked full on assault mode.
[note: do not attempt to process deer bone, gristle, etc with a Badger 2000 Garbage Disposal-it will only result in the very nasty process of dismantling the disposal and seeing things that no human should have to witness]
After digging every piece of deer out of the stainless steel sink, scrapping the bits of flesh off the walls, scrubbing up the blood off the cabinets and floor, and vomiting just one more time for good measure....it was done.
By now-the kitchen was swarming. Everyone knew about dad's big kill-and the graphic details flowed like honey. The louder and more articulate you are the more you are listened to in a pack. So it stands to reason that while I fought to fix breakfast in the crowd of story-tellers, that the smallest story-teller, Beth, the 3 year old, was having to jump just to be seen in the mob. Peter talked of how he had hunted with dad. Caroline argued she had gone more times. Charlotte said she wished they'd all go get lost in the woods so she could go shopping with Mom and Lucy. Ethan and Philip told stories about the hunting trips they'd imagine they'd have as soon as they could remember to put the safety back on their rifles. And poor little Beth. She wanted to be heard so badly.
Beth kept insisting that she was big enough to hunt. Peter said No. Beth said she was smart enough to hunt. Caroline and Charlotte stole her blanket and said No. Beth said she was strong enough to hunt. Ethan and Philip informed her that hunters do Not wear footy pajamas. Beth began to cry. And Lucy said that hunters definitely did not cry. It was a losing battle.
I swooped her up and put her out of reach of the pack of hyenas on the high stool in the kitchen. She looked pitiful with her blonde ringlets mused from a hard night's sleep, pink fuzzy footy pjs macramed with bits of yarn hair from poor Pretty Princess Pony Dolly Girl's shedding head...she did look so sad with her plate size blue eyes swimming in tears...then the lip began to curl back...the eyebrows began to knit together. She had hatched her plan.
I, of course, was burning breakfast, so I was not privy to her revelation. But I heard it. It was loud and it occurred four hours later. After lunch, everyone went outside to play-everyone but Beth. She volunteered to take a "nappy"...which should have been my first clue. I collapsed on the couch with four loads of laundry and began to fold my way from one pile to another while keeping a wary eye out of the bay window on the survivor games unfolding in the side yard. ...as long as the machete didn't surface-I figured I could get the laundry folded.
Then this noise....this sound....this head pounding-god-awful-thumping-mind numbing-racket started. The floor shook, the chandelier tinkled as its little glass beads slammed together...then rising above the noise...Beth's classic "I-did-it-but-I-sorry-I-didn't-meana-do-it-an-I-won't-neva-do-it-again-please-don't-spank-me-daddy" wail started.
I raced for the stairs. One flight...the noise was higher, lower, somehow in the walls...I rounded the second set of stairs and into Peter's room. No guinea pig in the cage. Bad sign. Guinea Pig cage drug towards bathroom...really bad sign. I opened the bathroom that connected the boys rooms to find water, wood chips, half a carrot and a terrified Beth. The noise was coming from the toilet. And no wonder. The toilet looked like the apocalypse now re-visited on the porcelain god of old. It was burping, bubbling, belching, and burgeoning with wood chips and guinea pig poo.
"Oh Beth, Bethy, Beth-PLEASE tell me you did not put Chippy down the toilet" I gasped. She was frozen in horror but managed to stick out a chubby finger and point to the tub. I jerked back the curtain to find Chippy, the resilient guinea pig, bravely manning a Rescue Hero's Boat in about an inch of tepid water. He was taking any water anxiety out on the leg of the Barbie Doll he was humping.
"Oh thank goodness!"
After securing Chippy and his new lady love in a nearby (dry) plastic bin, I frantically tried to stop the toilet from erupting. I lifted the lid off....monkeyed with the insides, traced the water line down to the floor and turned off the valve. The noise stopped. But the carnage was impressive.
Beth's tears dribbled down her pudgy cheeks. "Peta said that I was a baby" she sniveled "Ima big girl. His tuttles are babies."
"His tutt---" AH! I dashed back into Peter's room and realized he was an animal short. His favorite turtle was definitely not in his happy bowl. "Oh Beth-did you flush Tank down the toilet?!?!"
Without waiting for her to start her signature wail again, I sprinted for the shop vac. While most keep something as heavy duty as a shop vac in the garage, this family frequently needed it and so it was kept in the front study. I dragged it up the steps and into the bathroom. I almost laughed out loud as I put on my trusty yellow rubber gloves. Where were the elbow gloves? The hip wadders? The HASMAT suite?
Oh well, into the fray. I started the vac...
Luckily for lil Tank the turtle, he hadn't gotten far into the maze of plumbing. After a few seconds, a thick "floop" indicated that our potential toilet clogging disaster could have gotten better....I switched off the vacuum and gingerly reached into the hose.
I'm not sure if there is an official pissed off look for turtles, but this turtle should definitely go into modeling. He was pissed. I rinsed him in the sink and plopped him back in his happy place. That little guy will need mega therapy. I began to clean up the bathroom, hopefully before Peter came in and saw his room. The last thing I needed was a tween with a myocardial infarction. Too late.
Peter rounded the corner, and started hyperventilating before he even saw the bathroom. I assured him everyone survived, although it looked like Chippy was bound and determined to make that Barbie a prisoner of war. He was livid.
So there I was....just another day at work....I had cleaned deer guts, bone and bristle up out of the kitchen, gum off the couch in the den, soda and prunes off the front coffee table, moldy yogurt out of the shag carpet in the office, and guinea pig wood chips out of the upstairs toilet...and a turtle...I had one hand on Peter to keep him away from Beth, one yellow gloved hand still scooping up wood chips, one leg keeping Beth blocked from running away and hiding, and one mouth-pleading with both of them.
I suppose now as I write this-I can see the humor.
or at least I have to in order to survive the next day.
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