So after a day of deep cleaning in preparation for having folks over for the holiday, I made dinner this evening, a lovely pesto filled pasta in a creamy red sauce. After dinner, Nolan and I retired to the boudoir to watch television and have a glass of wine, and I, like the whimsical girl that I am, decided to paint my nails.
So far a pretty mundane evening at Carrie's house.
But then, I sweetly ask my husband if he would "go and get the clothes out of the dryer, and move clothes from the washer to the dryer," I asked, blowing on my nails, "so I don't mess up my polish?"
He grumbled as he got up, muttering something about "what have you done for me lately?" and reluctantly walked through the living room and kitchen, and into the laundry room.
When he got there, the noise he made can only be described as sonic boom-like.
Thirty minutes prior, before I began painting my nails, I told my ten year-old that the dogs needed water. This is one of his chores. All he had to do was get up, pick up the bowl, go into the laundry room, fill said bowl and put it back down. That's all he had to do.
What happened was that he left the water running into the bowl, got distracted and left it to watch television. The bowl was neatly covering the drain in the laundry room sink, and for the next half hour, water ran into the sink, out of the sink, and flooded the brick and tile floors in the back of the house.
There was at least an inch and a half of water all over the place. It was not cool.
Ironically, I'd thought to myself earlier today, "Wow, I really need to mop tomorrow."
Um, yeah. Don't need to do that, now.
So Nolan went to Lowe's and bought a shop vac (nifty little thing) while I soaked a lot of it up with every beach towel we own. Sixteen beach towels. SIXTEEN. Seriously. Anyway, sixteen towels, two hours of vacuuming water from the floors, and one ten year-old whose name we're thinking of changing from Ethan to Mud later, everything's okay.
Live and learn, you know. I did dumbass things as a kid. Hell, I was the Queen of Dumbass Things. I roller skated on the coffee table in the living room, fell on my ass, splintered the table into a dozen pieces, and then - are you ready for this? Put it gingerly back together. Like no one was going to notice that it was propped on the sofa and rigged within an inch of it's life. So I understand about being drifty. I get it. I get distracted at the drop of a hat or something sparkly.
But my little one will probably never make this specific mistake again.
And if by some stretch of the imagination he does? He'll be up for sale. One blond, blue eyed, pretty sweet, funny, slightly drifty ten year-old.
Whose name is Mud.