Mercy

I am trotting out this post again after pulling it shortly after posting it late last summer/early fall. It’s gross. But I like it. I called it “Mercy” because mothering = mercy-on-demand.

“Mama! Mama! I gots da di-rah-REEEEE-rah! I gots da di-rah-REEEEE-rah!”

Ryley shouted words you never want to hear strung together. He was three years old and standing at the top of the stairs. It was nearly bedtime for a tired tummy-flu battling mommy and the last thing any mother wants to hear.

The virus was eventually vanquished. Left behind in the rubble was a richer family lexicon. Our word for the very last malady on Pepto Bismol’s list is now “di-rah-REEEE-rah!”

It is difficult to shake the new and improved pronunciation of this particular word. There have been several times I’ve held a feverish child in the pediatrician’s office and told the doctor “da di-rah-REEEEE-rah started yesterday morning…”

Early this morning I heard the jingle of our dog’s collar. She was walking up and down the stairs. I didn’t think much of it because I know she checks on everyone during the night. She briefly came into our room but didn’t try to rouse us. No bark, no whine, no help me, people. I fell back to sleep.

When I opened my eyes I could hear the three big kids in Ryley and Sam’s room, playing. I got up to tell them to go downstairs so we could start breakfast. When I walked in their room there was a stench that punched me squarely in the nose and gut. It was big and it was wearing giant red leather gloves. “What is that smell?” I demanded.

“I think it’s Sam?” offered Ryley.

“I doubt it!” I gasped, “Go down stairs!”

I followed them with the horrible suspicion the dog had something to do with our aromatic wake-up call. I tiptoed around and turned on the lights, holding my breath in anticipation of seeing a mess. From across the room I saw a pile of poo that on closer inspection turned out to be a Stitch figurine from a Happy Meal. Feeling relieved because I saw nothing alarming, I was on my way to make coffee when Sam ran up to me and said “Junie pooped on my comforter!”

It seemed unbelievable. But hubby confirmed that the dog did, indeed, have di-rah-REEEEE-rah all over Sam’s comforter.

The athletic, brave, and crazy souls running on the greenbelt behind our house this morning when the sun was shyly peeking over the horizon were treated to the sight of a man in his boxer shorts and t-shirt hosing off a dark bulky object. My first impulse was to wrap it in several trash bags and drive it to the nearest Superfund toxic waste dump, but with gas prices the way they are I had to rethink.

After the hose-down, we put it in the washing machine, set it on Hellfire Hot, and dumped enough bleach to rid WaterWorld of every last bacteria, even the good ones. Turning stomachs are discriminatory stomachs. It is now on its third wash. I don’t think I will ever be comfortable seeing the comforter back on Sam’s bed.

Junie is going to spend the day outside. The kids feel awfully sorry for her, but none more than 23-month-old Joel, who knows how to unlock the back door and insists on letting her inside. I put her out. He let her in. I put her out. I stood by the door. He collapsed to the floor, feeling sad for her and wanting to exercise mercy. “She has da di-rah-REEEEE-rah, Joel!”

He wrinkled his nose. “Di-rah-REEEEE-rah! Uck.” His mercy came to a smoking halt and threw itself into reverse.

Moms do not have that luxury. We are called upon to go elbow deep into the muck of life and make it all better. Heather, on her new blog, wrote about such a night. It is so familiar. We are all in the same boat and we know we should bring bailing buckets. Big buckets. And a hose.

And a sense of humor.