I woke up last Saturday morning so excited to finally take a breather and spend some time with my kiddos. They were all home — my son didn’t have to work, and they didn’t need to be at their dad’s house until later in the day. I woke up ready to devour some of the Christmas cookies I’d made and thought it would be fun to take the kids out to lunch.
As the water was running down my back and I was standing under the shower head lost in thought, my oldest son peeked his head in to let me know he was running to the store to get more gas for the snowblower.
I felt a rush of relief — something that comes and goes since my divorce. It comes when things are going smoothly and I feel like I’ve been handling life well (we all know that has a lifespan of about 24 hours, so I enjoy it while I can.)
Feeling like it was a good day to do a deep-conditioning treatment, I slathered some yummy-smelling stuff in my hair and continued to stand under the steam and count my blessings.
Only that lasted for about three seconds, because my youngest rushed in the bathroom telling me his brother had hit one of our beloved pet ducks and we had to go to the vet that very second.
Now, you must know something about my youngest child: He’s the joker of the family and is constantly saying stuff that’s not true to get me riled up, so at first I didn’t believe him.
I poked my head out of the shower and saw him crying and knew it was real. I jumped out of my mini-vacation spot and wrapped myself in a towel, hair dripping with moisturizing ingredients.
I walked outside with child number two, who was beside herself.
Standing in the driveway, I felt like cousin Eddie from the movie Christmas Vacation when he’s emptying out the shitter. I had on a tiny robe, tall furry boots, and slicked, wet hair.
There were feathers all over the driveway, my son’s truck was still running, and to the left was our sweet duck — who was dead with her feet sticking up in the air. We stood there and cried together in the freezing cold for a while.
When we all came inside to try and compose ourselves, we had to defeather, which made my kids cry even harder.
My son felt horrible, of course — it was an accident and he wanted to make it right. After disposing of the duck and having a mini funeral, I was pretty close to hypothermia, so I got back in the shower and talked my kids into going out to eat anyway.
“It will make us feel better to get out of the house, and we can start looking for another duck by asking friends and checking different sites while we sit in the car and eat,” I told them.
They agreed and we got in the car and headed to our favorite fast food place where I stress-ate my fries as well as all my kids’ fries.
After sitting and talking for a good hour, it was time to drop my kids off with their father. We had decided to adopt a new duck because our remaining duck was bonded with her sibling, so I had my work cut out for me while they were gone. On top of finishing my holiday shopping and wrapping without their prying eyes.
On my drive home I felt my asshole start to percolate.
Before I knew it, I didn’t think I’d be able to hold it until I got home and I started to panic. Gripping the wheel tighter and driving faster didn’t work either.
Oh God, just hang on.
Why did you eat so many fries?
That was a really hot one.
Am I sharting?
Then, I saw my daughter’s number come up and I couldn’t ignore her call after all we’d been through that morning.
She was calling to remind me that she wrapped her retainers up in a napkin and left them in the center console. “You didn’t throw them away did you?”
But I had thrown them away. I grabbed all the trash before we left the fast food parking lot, and I specifically remember taking the napkin and stuffing it in the bag. Her head was in her phone, so of course she didn’t notice.
I knew in that moment what I had to do: I had to go back and dumpster dive in the fast food trash can and fight off the seagulls. Some people may have left the retainer in the trash and gotten a new one; single mothers of three children don’t do those sorts of things. They fucking dig in the trash until they find the mouth piece that cost them hundreds of dollars.
I practically did a donut in the parking lot pulling up to the trash can because my ass was about to explode. I didn’t even hesitate or wait until the drive-thru line wasn’t a mile down the road (which it was).
I womaned-up and stuck my hand and head in that damn trash can.
I found our bag and knew the retainer was in there. I could wait to dig through it; there was no need to humiliate myself more by digging through the bag and providing Saturday afternoon entertainment any longer.
What couldn’t wait was the massive dump that was pushing its way out, regardless of how tight my ass-cheeks were squeezed together.
I put on my mask, and went into the deserted dining room and ran to the bathroom with the very used brown bag in my hand.
I made it just in time, and thanked the Gods above that my drawers were clean: there was no sharting. The day was looking up!
However … as I went to wipe, there was no toilet paper. Not even a half-square to peel off the brown roll was left.
I stood, and didn’t even bother to pull my leggings up. I knew I could make it to the other stall in a few seconds, and wasn’t too worried someone would walk in since I was the only one there. And really, if someone saw my bare ass walking around the bathroom, I didn’t give a fuck — the day had been just that shitty.
I made it without giving anyone a show … only to find that stall was fresh out of ass wipes too.
I figured I could pull up my pants, wash my hands, and go out to the dining room and ask for toilet paper or grab some napkins. But when I walked in there were only two men behind the counter and a flurry of people trying to keep up with the drive-thru orders.
I couldn’t face anyone with that much mud in my crack so I did what any resourceful woman would do: I went into my purse and used every extra mask in there, left, and went home to eat about a dozen cookies.
Yes, we all made it through the difficult time, but the moral of the story is you can have a day from hell and nothing major or serious has to happen. It can just be a shit day that can take you weeks to decompress from.
After all that madness, my nerves (and asshole) still haven’t gone back to normal.
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