My husband and I frequently play a little game called Something Stinks. It involves him leaving something stinky where it doesn't belong and me sniffing around the house like a bloodhound and screaming "F@#%!" when I find it. After that, if you were a well-fed fly on our wall, you'd hear a foul tirade something along the lines of this (earmuff alert): "What the f@#%, dude?! There are garbage cans for shit like this! How many times do I have to tell you? Our house is not a f@#%ing barn! People live here!! Please don't raise our children like farm animals! Do you want us all to get cholera? Why do you do this?" Actually, I may have exaggerated somewhat - you wouldn't have to be a fly on the wall, anywhere within a hundred yards of our house would put you in hearing range.
The stinky somethings I find are not your run of the mill dirty socks and half-drunk glasses of milk souring in the sun; they are nasty nappy landmines. Common mine sites include the floor next to the change table (even though there is a diaper pail there), beside the tub (even though there is a garbage can in every washroom), the living room floor (even though there is a diaper pail in the room), and the sofa (WTF? Watch where you sit!), but I have to be vigilant as I receive intel of new locations all the time. If I didn't locate and dispose of the diapers, they would remain untouched for days, the only changes being the increasing stench and number of diapers in the piles. That is, unless the girls disturb them. M knows to stay away, but sometimes the mines are unavoidable when rushing to the potty. Em, with her newly acquired mobility, crawls through the minefields like a kamikaze minesweeper. After gruesome accidents involving diaper face washes and diaper-gelled tootsies, I now conduct a thorough sweep and reclamation work (disinfecting) before letting the kids enter a new zone in our home. The bathrooms take the most time as the floors are carpeted not only in dirty diapers, but bio-hazardous bum rags.
Strangely, the most common mine site is on top of or beside a garbage can or diaper pail.
There can't be much satisfaction in that for K because it doesn't take me long to find the stinkies. Why, then? He forgot how to open the bin? Or, he practiced aiming, couldn't get it in and gave up? The hole is way bigger than another hole he has no trouble getting into (why do you think our kids are so close in age?)! Further, he used to play college basketball, so shooting baskets in the trash bin should be a piece of cake. The reason, my friends, is that he is secretly trying to kill me. Whether the diapers are near or far from the garbage can doesn't matter because he knows that I take issue with the stinky somethings not in their rightful place. He knows that my compulsion to dispose of the dirty diapers will overcome my fear of contracting ailments inherent to bum cooties (I do not have OCD, I do not have OCD, I do not have OCD.). What he doesn't know is that I wear protection!
Then again, he may be on to me... One day last week, K decided to up the ante and put M's used Pull-up on the kitchen table. When I asked him what the hell the Pull-up was doing there, he looked at me with an evil glint in his eyes and said, "It's only a pee diaper".
By those standards, I should wash the dishes with the toilet brush! And perhaps the children should just stop using diapers and Pull-ups and do their business all over the floors and furniture since that's where their crap ends up anyways! I think this new level of disgustingness is Plan B: He's hoping I will get so worked up invoking the inner demons that I'll stroke out and die. Well I refuse to give him the satisfaction of that happening!
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