Start With Oatmeal.

It all began with oatmeal.  It was seven am and the kids were both up and stooled in the kitchen, Judah propped high in the green stool and Camilla contained on the purple and pink one.  And I turned around with watered oatmeal in my hand to nuke it warm and soft.  The coffee was brewing, the sun still not revealed, but the kids and I were roused awake with morning under full force.

Then wack! went the porcelain bowl, edge colliding with the corner of the wall-mounted microwave, white dish clapping against the ground with the bursting volcano of oatmeal spraying out of it all directions.

I stood blinking a minute, stunned in my now wet, dripping robe, surveying the damage: loose oatmeal and water splattered at every angle of cupboard and counter, the pantry door, the refrigerator, dishwasher, the whole of the kitchen.  Up and down, like a tsunami of steel oats and sticky water speckled and sloshed.

I could tell from Camilla's face, how I reacted mattered.  Because -- oh no, it was mommy this time who made the mess.  I got down with the thick roll of Bounty paper towel and started to mop up the deepest pools, rolling the remarks about "don't cry over spilled milk" over and over in my head.

Yet two hungry kids needed to be fed.  So before finishing, I swooped them up and settled - buckled - them into their high chairs.  Seated now.  Contained.  I pulled eggs out of the already-open microwave and sprinkled them into pieces on Judah's tray, then rearranged new oatmeal before Camilla.

Gathering a red bucket of vinegar water, I squeezed the rag between my fingers, removed my robe, and started crawling around the kitchen floor on my hands and knees, smelling of vinegar and brown sugar oatmeal and ham and eggs. Bare knees rubbing on wood, my hands scrubbed the soppy mess sliding down every corner.

Then, a thud! Clunk.

I peered around the island corner, bracing myself for whatever fell or broke...

But worse:  There was Judah, holding the edge of the tablecloth;  somehow The Little Destroyer pulled the whole thing over his way, with the entire contents of the table with it.  All. Over. The Floor.

Eggs.  Ham. Oatmeal. Flowers. Cards. Cheese. Valentines.  Everything.  A mornings worth of debris sprinkled about.  Add it to the rug stains.

I stood up in my mix-matched pajamas, knotted ponytail floppy atop my head.

To laugh or cry?  Blink or look?  Cringe or sigh?

I decided to scrap the rest of breakfast altogether.  Unbuckled the kids, grabbed a few of the biggest chunks off the floor, and turned to grab my phone to share with family what could only make their morning slightly comical at this point.

In the couple seconds of getting started a talk-text phone chat, I hear: "Mom!  Judah's going upstairs!"

The kid is so fast.  And I am not an absent parent.  I round the corner and my 10 month old son is atop the stairs, super proud and determined.  Destined.  And I know exactly where.

He loves the toilet.  Like a dog.  He could play it it and lick from it all day if I'd let him.

[I don't.]

So I take a second to tuck my phone away and dart upstairs.

He's already grabbed the toilet seat with wet fingers.  Yuck.   Nothing good can be growing in there.

But this little guy has a grab on that toilet seat like he's going for gold.  I loop one arm around his waste and lug him to my hip while my second hand goes to get his gnarled, clinging fingers off the nasty seat.

Breaking him free, I swing him around, swirl him on my hip toward the door, while, simultaneously, Camilla steps in the bathroom, thus slamming heads, colliding and bonking each other lending to streaming tears and screams in unison.

Someone start the day over.

And it's only 8 AM.

Happy Valentines, 2017.