Every Friday night I delude myself into thinking I can sleep in on Saturday mornings. Monday through Friday, I have a Husband who wakes up at 5:30, and while I am usually some version of comatose- I am still very much aware that he is in the shower/running the dryer/buzzing about getting ready for work. Sundays we have to wake the kids up early and take three very cranky and overtired children to church.
Saturday is my day- it's my ONE SHOT at sleeping to a reasonable hour.
It is, of course, a complete pipe-dream. Especially when the garbage company up and moved our scheduled pick up date to Saturday. Out of some irksome revenge plot of fate, we are the first stop of the morning for our friendly neighborhood garbage truck. It barrels down the street behind us at a shocking 6:30am. (Our master is at the rear of the house, so the back street is when I am woken by the crashing, banging, and diesel engine) by 6:45 it is right in front of Little Man's bedroom window. So naturally, he's up.
This particular morning, after ignoring the baby, (who remarkably returned to slumber for a time) I found myself tossing and turning. I was too hot under the blanket, then too cold, then my pillow was lumpy. Ugh. I was up, and there was no way to get back to dreamland.
Being the benevolent, totally-awesome-wife that I am, I tip toed around the room and turned off all the monitors to let The Husband have the sleeping-in experience I yearned for. Stumbling down the stairs, mumbling under my breath to myself about the madness, I tried to complete the morning feeding-of-the-hounds ritual. (something The Husband does normally) I should at least attempt to paint a picture of what my dogs are like in the morning. Usually they are total couch potatoes, lounging around the house, peeing on the children's toys in a desperate plot to chase the kids out of the house, and yapping incessantly when anyone makes any sort of noise outside. Basically, super chill- if insanely annoying, dogs.
That is, except for mornings. Scotty, the oldest and most trigger-happy-pee-er, is developing arthritis in his joints and acts more and more like a crotchety old man each passing day. Except when it comes to his one true, and only, love: FOOD. He bounces around like a puppy at a tennis ball convention when he knows breakfast is a-comin'. It's like he's on speed. There just... are no words to describe what that dog is like under the influence of kibble. So it's difficult enough to just get through doggie-breakfast-time.
Well this morning, after the usual nutso feed, I let both dogs out to go potty. (a feat that simply cannot be accomplished under the extreme excitement of possible food, so this is done after food... when all the magic has once again faded from the world) Only Peaches returns. She's boisterous enough because she's a) been fed and b) has to run at lightspeed around the house just to keep her toothpick legs from freezing from the "extreme" winter temperatures.
Scotty is still squatting in the yard... squatting AND walking.
I give him a while to sort it out, then he hops inside and starts acting like a crazy person (aherm, dog) rubbing his face on every imaginable surface; he's on the couch! He's on the rug! He's in the playroom! By this time it is 7am- and I am pissed. Closer examination reveals a poop the size of a baseball (I exaggerate NOT, my friends!) plastered to Scotty's backside.
I curse... a lot.
I endeavor to wrangle the dog's nether regions into the sink and try like hell to get the sprayer to solve this problem. There is a stench involved, and I'm gagging. Eventually, after half the poop is removed and my entire kitchen counter is flooded, I realize this is going to end in a bath.
After stuffing half a roll of paper towels around Scotty's butt, I haul him upstairs, barge into our bedroom and plop the damned dog into the tub. (yes, I'm that enraged, I'm using "damn!") The poor Husband is startled awake, and I start barking orders. He is going to get the kids, who are all awake at this point, and I am going to deal with this dog of the underworld.
By 8:00, I am half drenched, smell like both wet dog and diarrhea, the kitchen and master bath are a disgusting mess that will require massive amounts of bleach, AND MY DAY IS JUST BEGINNING.
Welcome to Saturdays at my house.