Twelve minutes can be a very long time.
The Husband called to say he was coming home early, and I thought, awesome, I will get dinner on, big boy will get food in him before the five-thirty crazies. I put the breaded chicken in the oven and put the baby down after her feed. My son suddenly states he isn’t feeling well. I tell him to try and poo, as that could be the problem. But he didn’t quite make it, and then he was upset for ruining his batmans. I explained that this happens to the best of us, and why doesn’t he try to go again to make sure it’s all out? So he tried again on the toilet, proclaimed himself finished. He then went upstairs to find new underwear. NASCAR underwear. (We have a few redneck tendencies emerging). I hear a loud yowl from his room so I head on up, only to discover a very sad almost three year old and a large pile of poo on the carpet in his room. I again state that this is okay, and why don’t we try again. So we make it to the bathroom and he starts to freak out because it is ON HIS LEG and whhaaaaa!!!! Meanwhile I am trying to clean the pile up, running back to check on him, running the bath to plonk him in, and I smell something burning from the kitchen. I leave him on the toilet and run down to see smoke billowing from the oven. I realize that I have chosen the wrong thing to cook the chicken in, and grease is splattering the sides of the oven, making a nice, greasy fog. I whip the chicken out and turn on the fan. Too late, the fire alarm goes off. I run and punch in the alarm code, and run upstairs to my now wailing son, who has hopped off the toilet in fear of his life. I comfort him and tell him it was just the alarm, Mommy was burning something in the oven but it’s all ok now, no more noise, etc, as I am chucking him in the bath.
Baby, the calm one, is sleeping.
I clean up Mr. Mess and get him changed. Then I run downstairs and put the chicken back in the oven in a suitable dish, all windows and doors now open, inviting the neighbors to see our chaos. I run back upstairs and clean up the pile in the bedroom with carpet cleaner. I run back downstairs to answer the phone.
‘Hello?” huff huff huff.
A womanly southern drawl slowly states,”This is Brinks Security, is everything alright?”
“Yes! Just burning the chicken! I punched in the code!!??”
“We did not get a cancellation on our end. What is your password please?”
Silence. My password. I did not hit cancel on the alarm. I am still on piles of poo and burnt dinner. I thankfully remember and give it to her.
“Would you like me to cancel the fire department..”
“FIRE DEPARTMENT oh @#%*, yes please call them and tell them not to come!!”"
I don’t worry about swearing at this point. She says she will place the call. I put the phone down and decide microwaving veggies is the best option for this evening.
The husband comes home unaware of the literal @#%*storm he has missed.
For some reason I check the time, and it’s been all of twelve minutes.