It was Sunday night. I was at the end of my tolerance for being a mommy. I hadn't slept more than a few hours over the past several days due to a toddler with a cold. I was tired, more than a little grouchy and desperate for a few minutes to myself. Emmeline was bathed and ready for bed. Lena needed to wrap up her shower. My husband was upstairs getting ready for a business trip. I cracked open my computer and prepared for some "me time" indulgence.
"TRACY! I CAN'T DO THIS ALONE!"
Sigh. I made it 3 minutes without being needed.
"Ok, I'm coming." Grrr.....
I walk the green mile up my staircase. My instinct is screaming at me like people watching a horror movie: Turn around! Run the other direction. Don't go toward the crying!!!!! But, I keep trudging toward impending catastrophe. (And the people watching this unfold on the big screen are like - Oh, dayyyymm, she's a goner. Why don't they ever learn? I tried to warn her but she just struts in. Dummy.)
My husband dashes out of the bathroom. His shirt is soaked. He's half laughing, half panicking. "Lena has soap in her eyes and Emmeline has squirted lotion EVERYWHERE! I can't do this!" I want to laugh right in his face because this is what I deal with seven-hundred-thousand-million times a day. Someone is hurt, someone is wreaking havoc somewhere which will inevitably create a ton of work for me. Everyone is crying. Someone is panicking because everyone is crying. You want to call in a SWAT team to take over - but it is up to you and you alone to restore your home to "normalcy". But, I have figured out how to juggle all these balls of hideous. My husband, however, has not. Or, more likely he's just waaaaay smarter and beats the game by pleading ignorance. I send him off get the soap out of Lena's eyes while I tackle the mess.
I walk toward the wafting aroma of strawberries. The nightmare in front of me unfolds before my eyes.
Problem #1: This party of one occurred in Lena's bedroom. Apparently lotion raves are performed naked (but without bongos for those of you who wish to try this at home).
Problem #2: The lotion used was Lena's "special Hello Kitty lotion." (Lena to English translation: anything "special" means no one is allowed to touch it unless they want to die a terrible, painful death).
Problem #3: The lotion tsunami has obliterated Lena's room, making it look like a movie set for some really bad and graphic porn. I'm pretty sure I saw some extra in the corner smoking a Marlboro.
Problem #4: Lotion isn't easy to pick up quickly. And, Lena was just about done with her shower. Should Lena witness said destruction, her total freak out would make Hiroshima look like a small altercation.
Emmeline: "Hi Mommy! Me use yotion!"
Tracy: "Yes, thank you, Master of the Obvious. Do you think your sister is going to be happy about this?"
Emmeline: "Nope. Her gonna lell. But, stwawbewies mell nice."
Tracy: "Well, thank God you didn't choose the low-tide smell one. How do you propose we clean this up quickly?"
Emmeline: "Woll awond in it."
At least she had formulated some kind of exit strategy - one that I would never have come up with on my own. She rolled around in the lotion-y mess of the carpet, bed, and walls. I tried desperately to wipe it up quickly with towels while my husband wasted time keeping Lena occupied. Somehow my slippery toddler and I removed all the evidence of the Hello Kitty Lotion Tsunami of 2012 before Lena emerged from the shower. I tried to pick Emmeline up to get her cleaned up in my bathroom, but she kept sliding through my arms. Damn it. Too late. Here comes 3 feet of unicorn towel stomping down the hallway. Ok, everyone! Smile and look natural!
Lena: "Hmm...why does my room smell like strawberry Hello Kitty Lotion? WAS EMMELINE USING MY LOTION??????"
Which goes to prove, you can remove only some of the evidence from a party, but in the end your parents always find out. Where is FEMA when you need them?