Timmy puked in the toilet last Thursday. It was a big deal and he was all proud. It's a milestone in our house when the spawn reach the age where they wake up and know they're about to vomit and actually have the control of the esophagus (or whatever it is) to make it down the hall to the bathroom. We roll out the red carpet and have a party in their honor. And they get to drink their first beer.
So, when I heard the distinguishing "Mommy!" reach me in the ethers of deep sleep, I became worried that maybe Auggie had rolled over and puked all over himself and his bedsheets and his botty, thereby pronouncing his secondhood in the category of "making it to the toilet" as well.
There was a period of time when both boys were yelling "Mommy!" from their den in the middle of the night when they had lost their bottie, peed their bed, or puked in the space between the mattress and the side board. I asked them politely to please stop yelling from their beds and if they needed something from me in the middle of the night then they should get out of bed and walk down the dark hallway and up the dark stairs and find my pillow with my head on it in the dark and wake me up sweetly even if you have puke running down your chin. And wouldn't you know asking politely worked.
So, when I heard not one but two more "Mommys" last night at 3:19 a.m. my first instinct was to get mad. Any mother who has earned a full night's rest after having spent years waking up every 2 hours, and then every three hours, and then maybe twice a night, and then even just once a night deserves a full uninterrupted night of sleep for the rest of her life. Just my opinion. So, you can see where my anger might be justified.
But I slipped on my potato sack anyway and hustled down the stairs to see what disgusting chunky mess I would have to roll my sleeves up to clean up. In the dim light provided by the nightlight in the boy's room, I was able to make out Auggie and Timmy both sitting up in their beds. "What is it?" I asked, sounding annoyed. "Mommy," Auggie says calmly, "there is a skunk in our room."
What the...? And then I see it. I see the white tail dancing and its black shadow following very closely behind as he/she pulls the boys' toys off of their shelves.
"Boys, stay where you are and don't move a muscle."
I run back upstairs and do what I do best and wake Paul Bunyan up to save the day.
Me: "Paul, wake up. There is a skunk in the boys' room."
Him: "What? How did a skunk get inside our house?"
Me: "I think it came in through the cat door."
Him: "What the?"
Me: "Get up!"
When Paul wakes up from a deep sleep and has to move quickly to do something he doesn't think straight. Like the one night we went to sleep with the power out and in the middle of the night when it came back on the stereo, for some odd reason, turned on at FULL blast with the first song from the Oh, Brother Where Art Thou soundtrack on, (you know, with the guys on the chain gang working on the railroad) and he thought we were getting attacked by someone and so he took the time to put a shirt on but no pants before he started to run down the stairs.
Well, last night he jumped right out of bed, where he always sleeps naked, shuts the door to his porch. I don't really know why he did this. And he put on a pair of pants. No shirt.
By this time the skunk had exited the boys room and was over near our front door. Perfect. Paul says to me: let the dogs out the side door. They, at this point, don't know there is a skunk in the house. Me? I'm scared shitless because I'm supposed to have my closest friends over for dinner in 15 hours so I can give away all the spawn's shit that doesn't fit to anyone who will take it. No one would take this shit if it smelled like SKUNK! And not only that, but in one week we're having 7 of Paul's closest college buddies (and their wives) stay the night and I didn't want anyone having to sleep on skunk flavored sheets. So, yea, I'm shitting my pants.
Dogs go out the side door. I watch the skunky skunk suanter out the front door and now at this point I'm picturing the dogs, who are outside, realizing what the hell it is and chase it back inside. So, I stick my head out the side door and yell for the dogs to come to me. Liebe, of course, listens and comes right in. But Sydney, the dope that she is, picks up her head and starts to head towards Paul and the skunk. Thank the good lord I don't believe in that the skunk DOES NOT spray Sydney but rather comes back inside the house. But at this point Liebe is heading towards the front door and sees the skunky skunk and I see the skunky skunk raise that white tail like it's a forfeit flag and I hold my breath.
Liebe comes like a perfectly good girl. I smell a tinge of skunk, but it's not super bad. I put her back outside.
Me: "What do I do?"
Him: "I don't know."
Skunky Skunk heads back down to the basement, where I have a feeling he's been hiding out all day. I remember hearing the crash of bottles at 5 a.m. the morning before and I think that was him jumping off the platform that we have set up for Hunter the cat to eat on and walk in/out of his cat door.
At this point we open the garage door to the basement and block off the stairs to the upstairs, so skunky skunk has no where to go but OUT. And this is the part where I go back to bed and hear Paul Bunyan wrestling with what I hope and think is STUFF and not skunky skunk. It takes him a half hour to maneuver it OUT.
After a shower.
Me: Did you get sprayed?
Me: Why did you shower?
Him: Because I was freezing cold. (remember no shirt)
Me: Were you just picking up down there or were you trying this whole time to get him out?
Him: He was trying to hibernate in our basement.
Him: Thanks for your help. (being sarcastic)
Me: Yes, well I thought maybe you would rather choose trying to get the skunk out of the house rather than picking up the skunk shit around the house tomorrow. Am I right?