Well, it’s come to this. We’re into double digits. Day 11. I’m pretty sure if I looked in the mirror right now, my eyes would be only slightly less crazed than Jack NIcholson’s in The Shining.
We had a good day. A great day even. The beautiful Miss L is back in the house and the girls kindly let me pull both of them home from school in the wagon, which was nice. For them.
The pool is open and even though penguins would find it a tad nippy, they took their first swim of the season this afternoon.
After that, we snuggled into jammies and watched a mind-numbing movie about fairies and friendship and sisters which I barely managed to get through without euthanizing myself.
Bedtime was a struggle but it generally is with both girls here. Adjusting to sharing a room is tougher than I thought, and I don’t mind telling you that, as the song goes, “you’ll have to excuse me, I’m not at my best” when it comes to bedtime.
By the time I utter those four magic words – “go brush your teeth” – my patience is thinner than Kate Moss and I cannot always be counted on to make good decisions and demonstrate the patience and serenity I’m sure lies deep, deep within me.
So bedtime freak out done, I decide to climb into bed with a book. Yes, it’s not even 9 pm but I have wine and Twitter so at least I’m being social. (And when I say “my” bed, I mean the bed I’ve shared for the past 11 nights with Harmony, Scout, Austin and Sam. And by “shared” I mean been allowed to occupy about 9 inches across and 4 feet in length. My Chiropractor looooooves me.)
So I pull back the duvet and, behold, there is a giant wet spot. Which is curious because I don’t remember spilling anything in my bed. It’s freshly wet too. Like not seeping into the mattress, still kinda pooling on top of the sheet kind of wet.
So I contemplate this and try to decide whether it’s a “change and wash the sheets immediately” kind of wet spot (usually reserved for bodily fluids involuntarily ejected or something dead and stinky the dogs have brought in) or is it just a “don’t ask don’t tell it’s probably nothing” wet spot.
Before deciding, I must conduct a thorough investigation. In the absence of CSI-like technology, which allows crimes to be solved by hot, shirtless detectives in under 44 minutes, I launch my own inquiry.
Is it sticky? Yes. Does it smell? Thankfully not really.
What the hell?
Not being smelly rules out a few things, things like dog or kid pee that I would not want to sleep on even though my personal hygiene standards are at an all time low. It also means it’s probably not something a dog has pilfered from the green bin. The latter is important because it means this wet spot is unlikely to further rot or ferment while I’m sleeping on it.
So at this point, I’m not really inclined to do much. I’m tired, I have a glass of wine on the nightstand, a blog to update and I’m in the middle of a really good book. I’d like to go to bed. What’s the worst that could happen???