Picasso in the works?

I have had most of a day and all of a night to calm down a little, but I am still completely grossed out, so. . . .now I get to gross you out by rehashing all the grisly details.

Whaaa, Whaaa. Mama. Mama. The morning melodies got louder as time passed. I rolled out of bed and threw on some clothes that I sniff-tested to determine wearability then tossed my long brown locks into a ponytail. Will was watching cartoons in his pajamas, so I asked him to follow me upstairs to get dressed. I helped Will choose some summer-appropriate clothing and left him to don his t-shirt and jeans while I meandered toward the nursery, kicking train tracks and a doll out of my path. I opened the door and was overwhelmed by an intensly nasty odor. Yes, someone pooped, but that is a fairly common thing around here. What I knew I smelled though, was war-paint, but I had to figure out who was wearing it. There was not enough light streaming through the window to identify the culprit without approaching the crime scene. Half my gut was stuggling to keep from retching, and the other half was telling me to check the oldest one first; not just because he was the one who enjoys such art, but because he was beaming and bouncing with joy. The other two had looks of disgust on their faces that quickly changed to hope at the possibility of escaping their padded cells. Yes, it was Ben. He was still clothed, but I could tell he found the poopy-paint: his new hair-style was secured by brown, caked gel. The smears across his forehead and cheek were dry enough they were cracking. Wow, my son, the artist. If only I could express to him how proud I am ---- NOT. I held my breath and stripped his blue-turned-brown onesie and grabbed all his sheets. I am really getting good at doing all this with one hand while I hold him away from me with the other. . . all with one breath (I am still not breathing voluntarily.) I rushed Ben to the bathtub and gave him a quick scrub until he smelled sweet again. All the while, Jon and Maddie are wailing because they feel forgotten. After I got all the kids dressed we went down for breakfast and started the rest of the day.

I think I am ready to cut all fiber out of Picasso's diet, it is just too inspiring for him. A few hours later I finally got the kids quiet enough I could sit down for three minutes to eat some lunch. Will soon told me Ben was really stinky. I rolled my eyes, forcingly stuffed half a sandwich in my mouth, wiped my mouth and went to get Ben. Well, "Crap!" was an appropriate response, but Will told me otherwise. The little stinker was painting again. This time he was fingerpainting his legs and giggling. Off for another bath. Don't ever tell me to make time for myself to eat again. . .this is why I don't take lunch breaks more often. That was Sunday. Allen worked all weekend: leaving at dark thirty in the morning and arriving home in time for a late dinner. I think when he came home last night I was laying next to the refrigerator on the floor while two kids were chasing each other around the couch, one was sitting on me and jumping, and the fourth? Where did number four go??!! "Get back in here, NOW!"

I am at wits end. Worn out. I have run out of energy, and patience ran out soon after. I hate when the refinery expects these hours out of Allen. And then I feel guilty that he has to work so hard and then come home and work harder. I try to get the house to be welcoming for him, and since cleaning isn't getting done, the best I can do is to have a kid pep-rally, "Daddy is coming home!! Yay!! Everyone go watch for him!! Yay!!" That way when he gets home, he can be attacked by little cherubs excited to see him and he won't notice we are having left-overs since I forgot to get meat out of the freezer. And he won't notice the eight piles of laundry he trips over on the way down the hall. And he won't notice that we have a second puppy that is actually Jon after a snotty tantrum of crying and rolling on the unvacuumed carpet. And if I am really lucky, he will smile and wink at me, so happy to be home, come give me a kiss and a huge hug and tenderly say "Thanks for all you do. You are awesome and I love you." Oh yeah, I am a very lucky woman!

Later, the kids were in bed and I was cleaning up the kitchen. Allen was cleaning up the living room and brought me Noah's Ark. "What do you want me to do with that?" I asked. His response. "Clean it." He found Picasso's masterpiece, it wasn't just his legs Ben painted. I guess the Bible stories we read are making some sense -- everyone knows that Noah's Ark had to have been muddy, and with all those animals, it must have smelled like crap.