Dealing With Poopy Situations

The crack and boom of a dawn thunderstorm kills my Monday morning coffee shop dreams. I envision warm wool socks, hiking boots, leggings, and my salmon-colored raincoat wrapped around baby Abigail. Under our flowery umbrella, I’d speed walk down the flooded sidewalk to the Cracked Mug.

Lightning turns the green-hued sky electric pink.

Maybe we’ll drive, I think.

I envision waking a sleeping babe, changing her soiled diaper, dressing her warmly, buckling her into snug car seat, hoping she falls back asleep so I can sip a warm vanilla latte and write.

Nah; maybe we’ll stay home today. Maybe I’ll recreate the coffee shop experience at our dining room table.

Scout, the seven-month old Sheltie, yelps from his kennel. Great. Zach drove last night to San Angelo for his last reserve duty. I have two puppies and a baby on my hands, and the downpour of the month flooding our yard.

Scout and Rufus the Collie embrace the rainstorm. Scout bounds through rain-soaked grasses like it’s a Sunday backyard social out there. I sigh. All day, I’ll be praying they accomplish backyard business without my constant coaxing. I’ll be wrangling the frisky hooligans to wipe dirty paws. I’m sure I’ll give up on clean floors before lunchtime.

I poorly scramble eggs – because I excel at screwing up eggs – and Scout whimpers. “Fine, I’ll let you out again,” I say.

But, I’m too late. An unmentionable mess awaits in the shadows by the baby gate. I envision the times I’ve yelled and thrown toys at Scout. The times I’ve threatened to kill him or accidentally lose him. Remorse always follows those flashes of anger. I stare at the mess. I wonder how on earth to clean up this type of mess. I can’t call the front office and ask for the school custodial staff to meet me with a mop at the baby gate by the hallway.

Armed with an array of cleaning supplies and cleaning tools, I take a deep breath and just go for it. Why waste my breath – why waste my angry energy – cursing a poopy situation? I am disappointed, no doubt. Scout should be over indoor accidents by now. Yet, instead of flying off the handle for the upteenth time, I channel my frustration into scrubbing. Into solving the problem at hand. Into dealing with the poop at hand. I’m sure it won’t be the last time my temper is challenged today.

The smell of Fabuloso cleaning solution replaces the foul smell. Now it’s back to breakfast and the promise of my coffee shop experience. The clinking of Fiesta ware wakes Abigail. I sigh. Maybe I’ll drink the last of my huckleberry coffee before the AC cools it.

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