I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
November 7, 2005
You’d think I lived in a funhouse with crazy, slanted floors. Either that or certain members of my family were genetically cursed with an inner ear disorder that causes them to lurch inexplicably whenever a beverage is placed in their hands.
I’m talking about Hubs and my 12-year-old stepdaughter. Both of them have an extraordinary ability to spill virtually anything they’re carrying, marking their wanderings through the house with a trail that generally includes drink stains, muddy shoe prints, crumbs and candy wrappers.
The coffee stains that visitors surely note spattered throughout our home are Hubs’s specialty. The man drinks more coffee than a grad student the night before her thesis is due. He’ll make three pots in a day if he’s home, but a fair amount of it never reaches his mouth. Instead, it’s sloshed onto countertops, hardwoods, carpets… You name it, it’s been baptized in java. My friends laugh when I tell them the places I’ve found coffee stains, but I am not kidding. Little dried droplets have been discovered on practically every wall in the house and even on the ceiling. I really don’t know how this could’ve happened, and I hope I never find out.
The worst coffee incident we’ve had here lately was when Hubs dumped an entire mug of coffee on the playroom carpet.
“It’s okay,” he said quickly. “I’ve figured out a really easy way to get it all out.”
He ran downstairs and brought up a few dishrags and a tall glass of water, which he poured (all of it! all of it! Noooooooooo!) onto the stain. He then threw the dishrags on top of the whole thing and stomped a few times.
“There!” he said. “The water dilutes the stain and when it dries, you won’t even see it!”
Two years ago when we moved into this house, I would’ve probably reacted in a less-than-pleasing way to his remedy, but I’ve been so beaten down by spillage over the years that I’m ashamed to say I believe I only emitted a doubtful grunt. In the back of my mind, I told myself I’d deal with the stain later.
Two weeks later, as it turned out (What can I say? The playroom is generally a spectacular catastrophe of old food, candy, toys and art supplies- In the summertime when the girls are out of school, the mess is so vast and depressing that I avoid it at all costs), I entered the playroom only to find that the smallish coffee stain had spread and darkened. Was that…. mold?!
Outwardly, I remained somewhat calm (having a small child will do that to you), but inside, a screeching banshee in an apron was clawing at the insides of my stomach. You know what I’m talking about, right? That inner eye most women in charge of a house have, the one that goes bulging and bloodshot when it first sees a significant stain or scratch that even a Magic Eraser can’t fix?
Moving on (even now, I can’t bear to think about my moldy carpet stain too long without getting short of breath). Hubs is surpassed in his Olympian spilling skills only by 12. She makes Messy Marvin look like Hazel. She has mastered the act of carrying a drink. But add to it a plate of food and…. kersplat. The drink inevitably turns inward and empties its contents on her and whatever else is within a three-foot radius.
I watch, with a mixture of fascination and horror, as this happens again and again and again. What is a stepmom to do? I can’t exactly slip her a sippy cup without her noticing… and besides, liquids aren’t even the half of it.
I offer up the following situations for your perusal:
Cough= cough syrup= cough syrup stains on bedroom carpet, sheets and pillow.
School supply run= pink highlighter= massive stain on carefully-purchased beautiful comforter.
English project= multi-colored molding clay= new permanent rainbow flecks in playroom carpet (to draw eye away from enormous mold stain).
Puberty= botched attempt at painting own nails bright red= using guest towels to eliminate evidence on fingertips.
It’s enough to make one’s head spin (I am carefully holding mine in place right now). I’m going to stop typing this list of evidence now before my blood pressure gets any higher.
Thank God I have a helper coming to my aid… Although Baby currently is a toy tornado spiraling her way through the house, leaving anything she can reach toppled and/or strewn in her wake, I am not yet counting her a total loss. I have had a few glimmers of hope.
For one thing, one of her first words was “mess.” Now it has expanded to “Ooooh, mess!” and a finger wagging at the problem areas, which have included spilled drinks, overturned trash cans and recently, our leaf-covered front yard.
Give her a dishrag and she’ll busily clean everything in sight. Give her a napkin and she’ll carefully wipe her mouth with it- and then yours. And one of her favorite pretend games is “vacuuming.”
Could Baby be my avenging angel? Could she, the budding neat freak, be the one who makes possible that stay-at-home-mom life I’d always dreamed of having? The one in which I sleep in until noon and then spend the day lolling on the sofa, eating bon bons and watching Desperate Housewives on Tivo while she happily tidies up around me? We’ll have to wait and see.
In the meantime, does anyone know where I could find a deal on shit-brown carpet?
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