Kittymomma's Adventures

I stealthily peek around the corner. At least, I peek as best I can with my shirt over my head.

My son’s high-pitched voice pipes, “Noooo! It’s the ghost! Get away!”

We take off in opposite directions around the staircase, giggling hysterically, me hauling my shirt back down enough to avoid smacking into the wall.

Chris had headed upstairs to put the baby down before our game started, warning me to make sure Fort didn’t try to eat Max’s uneaten lunch on the kitchen table. As I darted through the dining room once more, an unmistakable fragrance met my nostrils. Cat pee. I hoped fervently that my running past the crawl space that contained the litterboxes had simply wafted the smell further than usual.

I called time-out to perform a search with our special flashlight anyway. Lo and behold, I found cat pee. In two different places. One of which was directly in the path Max crawled through with his trains to escape the “ghost”.

I begin the familiar process of cleaning up the cat pee with the Simple Green.

“Mommy! Be the ghost!”

“I can’t be the ghost, honey. Right now, I’m a stressed out mom cleaning up cat pee. And I’m going to need you to stay where you are in case you crawled through it.”

As I rush to the kitchen for more paper towels, I see that Fort is on the kitchen table helping himself to Max’s lunch. I shoo him away. A sniff test reveals that Max did, indeed, crawl through the cat pee with his trains. I strip him down, sniff his skin. Bath time. I pack away the food and begin to lead him upstairs.

Chris appears.

“Max and I were playing ghosts, I found cat pee, Fort got into his lunch while I was cleaning it up, and Max crawled through it with his trains. Now he needs a bath.”

Chris looked like he wanted to go back to walking the floor with the fussy baby.

A squawk from said fussy baby emanates from the baby monitor.

“It’s ok, I don’t think Fort actually got any of Max’s food. You take him upstairs, I’ll listen for her, and finish cleaning up.”

Chris sniffs Max, gags slightly, and leads him and his dirty pajamas upstairs.

The squawks turn to cries.

Now it’s Mom’s turn to walk the floor.

And THAT’S Sunday morning.