This morning I went to get our dog Jezebel and give her breakfast. (She sleeps in the boys’ bedroom.) When I opened the door, I was assaulted by a horrid smell—though “horrid” barely scratches the surface of humidity + closed doors + really sick dog. I have no doubt Jez tried to wake the boys up when she knew she was getting sick. But they’re 16 and 18—and nothing wakes them. I’m convinced a mariachi band playing in the center of their room wouldn’t cause them to twitch. I’ve even found my 18 year old sitting up sound asleep because he was reading when he fell asleep and didn’t move during the intervening 8 hours.
In any case, even though my eyes were watering, I saw well enough to notice that Jez greeted me with her I’m-so-ashamed-I-wish-I-could-fix-this sad Labrador retriever eyes. I wished she could too. But she couldn’t. So I turned to the next best thing. My husband.
It was 6 am and he was already working at his desk, but I said, “Uh, the dog puked and had diarrhea during the night…” Cal stood up, gathered a trash bag, paper towels, and cleaned the floor. Then, he mopped it with bleach and soapy water. And me? Wimp that I am…I held the flashlight—though turning on the light probably would not have woken the boys from late adolescence-induced slumber—because, you know, I had to try to “help.”
Now I know what you’re thinking, Cal is working hard to get serious “good husband” points before we go to Paris. And he did. I told him so.
I’ve always said I’d rather have a husband who’d clean up vomit without complaining than one who’d make big romantic gestures. Apparently, I got both. Hmm…I wonder if he’s up for defrosting the freezer on his day-off. That’s the next nasty chore on my to-do list.
No photos today because…well, yuck.