Clean surfaces. Empty washing baskets. Tidy playrooms. Sleeping children. Time to think. My mission in life is to have these things in order by the time night falls on my daily battle against domestic chaos.
I employ a variety of pre-emptive strikes in my dogged determination to win. Routines, lists, and the hand-held vacuum are my weapons of choice. Victory often comes at the expense of haircuts, shopping trips, a toned midriff and sanity.
Despite these gallant sacrifices, I don’t always win. Take last Thursday night, now recorded in history as the Battle of the Projectile. It was guerrilla warfare – an ambush and sabotage of what should have been a peaceful night.
Busy-And-Important-Husband was away on a Busy-And-Important-Business-Trip. After negotiating the ‘dinnertime, bathtime, bedtime’ minefield, I was on the couch, with laptop, Piddly Pup and a glass of wine in my well-deserving hand.
As my senses were dulled by a second glass of wine and the Kardashian girls, my surveillance equipment started to crackle (aka baby monitor). Little Fairy had a cough, which was deteriorating rapidly into an old man’s hack.
I’d heard this noise before and I knew it wasn’t going to be pretty. I moved quickly on the offensive. Placing the glass of wine down carefully (no need for rash movements), I tossed laptop and Piddly Pup aside and flew downstairs.
Entering the conflict zone I found Little Fairy sitting up in bed covered in puke, mouth open about to launch her inbuilt warning siren. I had to contain the situation before it spread to Boy-Who-Asks-Questions who was thankfully still asleep (they share a room, military tactic, keep them confined to one area).
I picked up puke-covered Little Fairy, keeping her at arms length. As I quickly turned to run out the door, the motion caused her to release a second hurl so intense it rendered me senseless.
I was in shock and awe as I carried her out into the hallway. The rapid-fire assault continued creating a sausage and custard bloodbath down my front and on the floor below us.
Blinded by the attack, I momentarily lost my bearings and ran the full length of the hall before I regathered my sense.
“RETREAT THE BATHROOM, RETREAT TO THE BATHROOM!” my mind screamed as I backtracked, slipping and sliding down the hall while the blitz continued.
Inside the bathroom, the bombardment finally eased with Little Fairy releasing her final shot. We both sat on the bathroom floor shell-shocked, gasping for air surveying the destruction around us.
I stripped down to my bra and undies and commenced the clean-up operation. Little Fairy sat on a stool helpfully instructing me ‘don’t miss that bit mummy, or that bit, or that bit’.
In my eagerness to salvage what was left from my precious evening I ran outside to hang the now washed collateral damage. When the security light flicked on I remembered I was still only wearing bra and knickers. Nothing like advertising your availability to the local weirdos when your husband is out of town.
It was about midnight by the time peace was restored. With Little Fairy resettled and the smell of Dettol lingering in the air, I trudged back upstairs in my dressing gown to find my wine.
But when I walked into the lounge room, I discovered an unexpected adversary had outflanked me. Not only had Piddly Puppy left a puddle of piddle in the middle of my rug (try saying that drunk), he had knocked over my glass of wine - the last glass from the last bottle. I was a broken woman.
So there you have a blog post about a projectile vomit. I had hoped to post a more highbrow observation about, oh, I don’t know - world peace, cyber bullying, gay rights or racial acceptance. But I decided that this was a tale from the trenches that just had to be told.