Ottoman

Me, age 41

Messes are overtaking my life.

 

I’ve just yelled at my kids to clean up their stuff from the family room, because I’m sick to death of stepping over Pokemon cards, novels, homework assignments and tennis shoes.

 

Why is it that the family room always ends up as a repository for their belongings?

 

(Why is it that the entire house always ends up as a repository for their belongings?)

 

After my kids remove their junk (only to dump it in their bedrooms to be dealt with on a different day), I tidy up the rest of the room. I straighten my stack of magazines, fluff the throw pillows, etc. As I drape a blanket over the back of the sofa, I am very dismayed to catch sight of dried chocolate on my ottoman.

 

Because my ottoman is made of brown leather, the shmear of dried chocolate pretty much blends in. I scratch at it with my nail and wonder how long it has been there. I also wonder which of my three kids has been (illicitly) eating chocolate in the family room.

 

But my questions, as it turns out, are entirely unnecessary. Because, as I sniff the alleged chocolate beneath my nail, I realize very quickly that it is not chocolate.

 

“Oh my God!” I screech, running for the bathroom. “OH MY GOD THERE IS DRIED POOP ON MY OTTOMAN!” I’m panting with distress as I wash my hands. I mean, I know my house is messy (show me a house with three kids that isn’t), but now it’s also un-hygienic?

 

I do some frantic Googling to ascertain the most effective way to remove the dried poop from my ottoman, but the removal of the dried poop is no longer the most pressing thing on my mind: Why was there dried poop on my ottoman in the first place? 

 

This is what I know for sure:

• Although he contributes significantly to the overall untidiness of our home, I think I can rule out my husband as the culprit. 
• It was not my dog. I’m sure of this because she is a miniature dachshund and has a difficult time physically mounting the ottoman.
• It couldn’t have been my dog’s poop tracked in from the yard, because it would have been all over the floors, too.

That leaves one possibility. I yell up to my kids and tell them to come downstairs right this very second.  

When they report to the family room, I am quivering with vexation and unanswered questions. In my frenzied state, I see them as suspects in a police lineup. Which one is guilty?

I take a deep breath to indicate to my children that I am calm and in control. Painstakingly, I ask them, “Why. Was. There. Dried. Poop. On. The. Ottoman?” I’m expecting someone to crack. I watch for any facial expressions that might give away the perpetrator – a trickle of sweat along the temple or a flushing of the cheeks – but instead, they all look at me like I’m off my rocker.

The rest of our conversation is a joke. I show them the ottoman, but because I’ve just cleaned it, my evidence is gone. They think this whole situation is laughable, because, COME ON, MOM, WHY WOULD WE PUT POOP ON THE OTTOMAN? SERIOUSLY, THAT’S GROSS.

My kids stand by their innocence, which leads me to contemplate a host of disturbing questions:

• Can someone unintentionally get poop on an ottoman? If so, how?
• If a kid doesn’t mean to get poop on an ottoman, are they doing other disgusting things that they’re unaware of?
• If there is dried poop on my ottoman, what else will I find in my house someday?

I can’t begin to process any of this, so I wave off my kids. “Just go back to making more messes,” I say. “You guys are good at that.” They roll their eyes and leave the room.  

I glare at my ottoman, because it really signifies everything that is discouraging about my life right now. I purchased it years ago when I had confidence in my domestic abilities and faith in my kids to make smarter choices. I had hoped it would lend comfort and style to a room where civilized grown-ups could enjoy a nice glass of wine every now and then.

Instead, it has been defiled. And there are no civilized grown-ups in sight.

But I do have a bottle of white in the fridge!!

I pour myself a glass and decide that none of this is the poor ottoman’s fault, so my wine and I sit upon on it with a heavy sigh. We are without a tidy ending or sense of resolution, and this (like so many aspects of motherhood) almost puts me over the edge.  

But I give in and accept my reality, because there's nothing a little Pinot Grigio can’t fix. But damn: my wine glass better be clean.