Thursday, April 2, 2015

The Mice Did Play

I may not be the best housekeeper in town, but I do try to keep everything tidy at the very least.  So imagine my surprise to come home after more than a week in Florida visiting my mother, who had two mild heart attacks and a stent put in her main artery, to find that I must have left a house filled with toddlers in charge.

I suppose the week started out well enough.  My nightly calls home indicated that things were going well.  They seemed to put on a happy face. My oldest son had a bad toenail but he kept assuring me that the antibiotics and ointment from the doctor were making it better.  My youngest went easy on the hubs and was home most evenings instead of out with his friends.  The three of them were playing games and were staying out of trouble, and for that I didn't care that the game room was filled with empty snack bags and half-filled soda cans. My husband and sons assured me that I was missed with an abundance of warm fuzzies.

On Friday night, my nightly call revealed there were some ants in the house, but my oldest assured me he sprayed them and they were gone.  By Saturday night, I received an urgent text from the spousal unit telling me we needed pest control for the ants, to which I replied that he should grab the brand new bottle of Home Defense and spray the bejeezus out of them until I could call pest control. Seriously, did I really need to explain this to him?  Was he going to wait for me to come home and deal with ant mounds in the house?

The next text revealed a grainy nighttime image of my youngest son spraying,  and I began wondering what the the hubster was doing, seeing as I asked him to spray and all. I went to sleep hoping he was supervising, and the spray would take care of the problem.  I should have known better.

Sunday morning, I received a call from my youngest.  He was arguing with his brother who insisted he stop spraying in the house because he was certain to die from the fumes. That's when it dawned on me that bug spray shouldn't smell. So what in God's name was my son using?

Turns out he was spraying Spectracide grass and weed killer around the house. Oh, for corn sake.  My youngest grabbed the bottle in the shed that had the same sprayer-type mechanism without even reading it. No shit, Sherlock. So where was my husband during all of this?

He was outside enjoying the patio. Nice.

Thankfully the spray ceased immediately. They wiped down the walls and floor and opened the windows to air the house out.  I swear if I were home I would have killed someone.  I had hoped beyond hope that this would be the end of it all.  Honestly, I should have known better.

I arrived home earlier this week to find my house in utter disarray.  In fact, to say utter disarray actually sounds slightly appealing compared to what I found. My house was torn apart and stuff was everywhere. Dirty dishes were in the sink. Grass was all over the floor. Dead ant bodies were in the corner. Dog poop was in the living room. Furniture had been pulled away from the walls. Crumbs and smears were all over the kitchen counters. A layer of dust clung to everything. Clothing was piled all over the place. Groceries were sitting on the counter. Crumpled clothing sat in the dryer. Several stacks of newspapers were on the table. A massive stack of mail was left unopened in the kitchen. Surely I entered the wrong house. Not so.

On top of the mess, my son's toenail was even worse, clearly requiring a podiatrist visit. Jeez oh Pete I was livid. Who had I left in charge while I was gone, Dumb and Dumber?

It took me half a day to right everything as well as unpack. I was irate. Did he really think trashing the house would keep me from leaving again should another family emergency arise?  I stewed for an hour before the hubs came home from work with flowers to make it up to me. Had it not been for the pitiful, forlorn look on his face, I might have returned to my parent's home in Florida again. It was clear that he did not fare well without me. Well there's that. Small consolation.

Note to self - next time I have to leave to visit my parents, I must remember to hire a babysitter. Surely a 12-year-old girl could have done better.