We get our milk from the milk man, whom, I might add, is rather attractive. He gave me a free bottle of lemonade once.
But anyway, the milk comes in nice fragile glass bottles and is delivered weekly. This week, I asked my son to get the milk out of the box for me. He's done it a million (well, several) times. No problem. He got a bit distracted by the neighbor girls (he's already developed a reputation as a "preschool Casanova") and he managed to smash one of the milk bottles on the cement outside the door. Ever had to pick up milk and shattered glass off cement stairs and rotting jack-o-laterns while wearing slippers? Uh huh. It's fun.
The baby was in his high chair, screaming his head off, crying and gasping because I was out of sight. I kept yelling at the kids to stop walking through the glass then stomping through the living room. The girls next door came over to watch the river of milk rushing down the stairs.
"What happened?" they ask. Since they're sweet kids, I refrain from making some smart-ass comment.
Then the phone rings and the shop vac won't work, so I switch it from suck to blow and it blows out a giant wad of hair/dust/nastiness into my face and the baby is still screaming and then I remember the spaghetti on the stove...
And oh, oh, oh! I scrap the edible part of dinner out of the pan, run outside to finish the glass clean up, pat the baby on the head in a nice reassuring manner as I run by him, getting outside just in time to stop Delaney from picking up a piece of glass. I search the garage for the freaking hose that we surely put away before the first freeze so I can wash the milk into the grass (it does a body good) but can't find it. Turns out it's still outside. Sigh. I break the little plastic do-dad that attaches the hose to the spicket, so I get sprayed with nice cold water as I turn it on. I have to vaccuum the living room and pick glass shards out of little shoes. The baby is still screaming. He's a nice shade of red at this point, tears and snot all over his cute little face.
Finally, finally I've got things cleaned up and Baby and I are both panting with exertion. I serve the burned spaghetti to the kids just as my husband gets home. He sits down and joins us. He takes a few bites, then pauses.
"Um..." hesitates, because he knows if he insults my dinner he will find himself enrolled in a cooking class. "Um...this tastes...well, um, did you use a different sauce?"
Nope. It's just blackened. It's gourmet. Hush up and eat it.
But that's nothing compared to what I have to do in a few hours...I have a party to go to with my son. Where a kid can be a kid.
Oh, God. Someone break a bottle of milk, would ya please??