The Mess I Got Myself Into

Toddlers come with many rules. Think Gremlins on steroids. I’ve gotten the major ones down: don’t not toddler-proof your home; don’t expect your children to remain angels upon turning 2 or 3 because tantrums will come when you least expect them; don’t think your kid’s going to eat that peanut butter and jelly sandwich she asked for – she really just wants to watch you squirm when she takes 1 bite and demands yogurt instead. But there’s one rule, one that’s insanely integral to child-rearing that you don’t even think about it until after you’ve experienced its dire consequences: no matter how tired you are never unwittingly fall asleep on the floor while playing with your kid. It happened to me. Don’t let it happen to you.

I awoke confused, face itchy and red from the carpet, drool still sliding down my cheek. Sienna wasn’t in the living room where I lay amongst books, Sesame Street figurines, superhero action figures and too many blocks to count. I stood up, rubbed my eyes and looked at the clock on my phone. Forty-five minutes. I’d been conked out on the floor, dead to the world, for 45 minutes whilst my child had the run of the place.

“Sienna!!” I called, looking around to see if anything was broken. Outside of the mess my daughter and I had created prior to my unexpected nap, the living room looked pristine. That’s when I should have known I was in for something bad, but instead I felt like I’d dodged a bullet.

“Sienna!!” I called again, walking down the hall to the kitchen where I found only our cat, Gleeb, in a perfectly clean room. Was it me or did he have a look of fear in his eyes?

Not in the living room. Not in the kitchen. Both my daughter’s bedroom and our bedroom’s doors were closed and she’d yet to master the childproof plastic things we’d placed on the front door knob which meant she there was just one more place she could be – the bathroom.

Now, we usually close the bathroom door, but for some reason I’d forgotten to the last time I used the…um…potty. Maybe it was because I was so tired. Maybe I was in a rush to get back to playing with Sienna. I don’t know why I didn’t close it and so I throw myself on the mercy of the court of fellow parents. Wait…I don’t have to do that. You know. You already know.

I heard something ripping from just beyond the partially opened door.

Please tell me she just tore up a roll of toilet paper. It can’t be that bad.

I opened the door and found my smiling daughter standing on the toilet gleefully tearing open one of my wife’s tampons.

“Daddy!!” she yelled. “You awake!!”

She threw the partially opened tampon on the floor or what was now, basically, a garbage dump. It was if my bathroom vomited – cotton pads, Q-Tips, mouthwash, toilet paper and my wife’s assorted creams, cleansers, make-up removers, lotions, gels and myriad of different tampons littered the floor. Since our bathroom is so small I literally could not see the floor tiles.

Sienna’s bathroom destruction

I sighed deeply, my body deflating as I contemplated how much work lay ahead, knowing it was all my fault. I broke a rule.

“Daddy!” Sienna said. “Look what I did!” Her beautiful face shone with the cheerfulness only associated with a toddler who knew she got away with something.

“It’s beautiful, sweetie. Now let’s clean up.” How could I chastise her when it was my fault for falling asleep?

“Okay!!!” she said, jumping from the toilet.

I opened the closet across from the bathroom, grabbed a plastic bag and began the tedious job of placing each bottle back on the shelf, trying to figure out which tampon went in which box (I gave up after a couple of attempts) and playing 500-Q-Tip pick-up. I have to say Sienna was quite helpful, I have to say. I also have to say that I was thrilled all of the bottles seemed closed, that the floor wasn’t a mess of gels and lotions.

That was until Gleeb walked in and I saw his matted fur.

“Oh no,” I said. “Oh no no no no!”

“What is it, Daddy?”

“Oh boy.”

I reached down, felt Gleeb’s gray and black back and sure enough, the poor thing was covered in some mysterious cream. I wasn’t imagining things. That WAS fear in his eyes!

“Sienna?” I asked, knowing full well the answer to my question. “Did you cover Gleeb with cream?”

“No,” she said sweetly.

“You didn’t?”

“No.” She smiled. “Gleeb has cream?”

“He does and now we need to give him a bath and this is not gonna be fun.”

I put tied the now full bag, closed the door, started the tub, and picked up a clearly frightened Gleeb who immediately started clawing the air and my arms. Sienna stood by watching.

I placed Gleeb beneath the faucet and then came the howls, nay screams as the poor cat thrashed in the shallow water like a drowning victim.

“What’s wrong with Gleeb?” asked Sienna.

“You know how you love to sit in the bath and splash?” I said. “Cats clean themselves with their tongues. Most cats hate getting actual baths.”

With one hand holding Gleeb, I slathered shampoo on the poor cat with the other. Sienna stuck her head past me so she should get a better look.

“Bubbles!” she said happily, ignoring my bleeding arms and the terrified cat now so soaked he looked like he’d lost 5 pounds.

“Yes,” I sighed. “Bubbles.”

I did my best to get all the cream off Gleeb’s fur, turned off the faucet and covered the trembling cat with a towel. I dried him as best as I could and released him into the hall so he could lick his wounds. I’d have to worry about my own later.

Now even more thoroughly exhausted from cleaning the bathroom and cat than I was before my surprise nap, I carried Sienna back to the living room thinking about this new rule I’d have to deal with each day as a stay-at-home dad – never, ever, under ANY circumstances, accidentally fall asleep on the floor while playing with your child.