In my house, the poop and the fan need no introduction. They are quite familiar with each other, especially when my husband is out of town. Because that's precisely the time that things tend to go very wrong. And usually, it's right at bedtime -- you know, when I've had just about all the fun I can take for one day.
So was the scene just the other night when a nasty migraine was revving up right alongside my kids as they BEGGED me to read them a teeny tiny little chapter (ha!) of Harry Potter before they went to sleep. I hadn't even eaten dinner yet, and about the LAST thing I felt like doing was trying to focus on a book. Well, almost the last thing anyway....
I was reluctantly agreeing to read them as much as my throbbing head would allow me, when Goatdog charged into my daughter's room like a bat out of hell. His front paws pounced right on top of her Rainbow Looms storage container, sending about ten gazillion rubber bands flying in every freaking direction. (Did I mention that she'd had the ten gazillion bands all organized by color? Yeah, good times.)
Her shrieks of horror and sobs of frustration did wonders for my head, as did all the blood that rushed to my eyeballs when I bent down to pick up the widespread wreckage. I swear, there were bands in areas of her room that I didn't even know existed! Those little suckers can fly!
By the time we FINALLY finished matching up all the colors, it felt like a jackhammer was inside my skull, and my daughter was ready to sell the dog on Craig's List. Harry Potter didn't even come close to making it off his shelf that night. And once again, my husband (damn him) missed out on all the "excitement". Man, I wish I could talk the poop into waiting for him to get home JUST ONCE before it visits the fan.....