"Mommmmmmyyy! I spiiiiiiilllled iiiiiit!"
I bump and stumble out of bed, my 7 a.m.-zombified self, trying to find the door.
Monsoon is sitting on the couch with a full bowl of Lucky Charms and milk, which would be fine, except it's upside down in his lap. He isn't moving, he's just waiting for me. He looks mildly uncomfortable, but not at all harried. "It's cold," he says, and he just keeps sitting in it.
Clearly, he has no intention of rectifying this situation himself.
It's early. I'm not even awake, really. I get distracted with daydreams of a new couch; one that isn't a secret patchwork of dog barf, baby poop, bean dip, fruit juice, sticky granola crumbs, and now milk.
He's staring at me, and I'm pretty sure I can tell what he's thinking. I'm interrupting his morning cartoon with my laziness. How can he enjoy himself with this cold mess in his lap? Come on, lady. Get it together. You're staring.
I decide, being that I'm offended by my perception of his thoughts, that I do too much. He's 8. He should clean up his own mess. I pump my fists in the air and stomp to the bathroom, screaming unintelligibly at the ceiling. I stomp back and throw a towel at him.
He just keeps staring.
I take a breath, explain that he needs to clean it up, and walk away.
Two minutes later, there are soggy cereal parts smashed into the cushion, milk spread and soaking into three different pillows, white crumby footprints covering the floor, and rehydrated rainbow marshmallows glued to the clean-up towel.
...And the towel was in the laundry hamper. I'm calling it a win.
On taking the new street
1 day ago