I put my daughter in for her nap at 2pm and surveyed the damage of the day. The fort we built earlier had collapsed with innocent dolls trapped beneath the rubble. Crayons and markers littered the floor, some hiding in fear under the couch. Smashed Goldfish crackers and half eaten pretzel rods lay crippled on the rug. It was a typical scene this time of day and there was only one woman brave enough to take it on.
I folded the blankets, fluffed the pillows and put my little artist’s precious tools away. I apologized to the dolls as I gently picked up their crumpled bodies. I gathered the sad little snacks, collecting them in a dirty bowl I found under the coffee table. I followed the routine as I did every day until something in my mouth caught my attention. I fished out a golden snack tangled in a lost strand of hair and stood frozen in fear. No, I couldn’t. I didn’t. I wouldn’t. And there in the middle of the mess I realized oh yes, yes I did. Somewhere between the cleaning and the straightening I was eating…OFF OF THE FLOOR. I was horrified. Disgusted. Shit, were the blinds closed? Did my neighbors see me grazing the hardwood for toddler treats? This was a new low. Had eight months at home with a toddler depleted me of my social graces? Oh my god, did I eat things off the floor in public?! I took a deep breath, pulled myself together and did what any disgraced woman would do next…reached for a drink.
As I took that first sip I wondered… "How long has this milk been in this sippy cup?" Gulp.
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