Dad, I have poop on my shirt.
My seven-year-old did indeed have poop on his shirt. His poop. Something horrible happened in the bathroom. As the only conscious adult in the house, it was my responsibility to deal with it. Never mind the fact that I had only been up long enough to start the coffeemaker.
I don’t want to go into specifics here, but my kid was “not acting responsibly” in the bathroom. It happens from time to time. I can’t wrap my head around it, but for some reason he will randomly ass out in the bathroom: spit on the mirror, smear toothpaste on the towel, etc. As punishment, he has to clean up the mess.
So we had a little talk. Then I grabbed the little basket of bathroom cleaning supplies, and handed it to him.
He knew the drill.
I plodded back downstairs, contemplating my obvious failures as a parent.
The coffee was brewed. I poured a cup. But before I could sample the precious brown nectar of life, I became overwhelmed with a smell. It was not the smell of poop. It was not the smell of coffee. It was the smell of bleach.
Dread wrapped it’s icy fingers around my heart. I should very definitely not be smelling bleach.
The bathroom-cleaning-punishment-basket is supposed to be relatively safe. But someone (I won’t go into any names here, but they are married to me) had removed the safe-for-kids-to-use cleaner from the caddy and replaced it with a bleach-based chemical weapon.
I am in no way blaming my lovely wife for this. I am the one who handed my kid bleach. And OH MY GOD how he used it.
My lovely wife recently purchased two bathroom rug thingamabobs. The first is a bathmat sort of rug that sits in front of the sink. It soaks up stray toothpaste. The second is a “U” shaped device that slips around the base of the toilet. It soaks up other things. But today, both of these new bathroom rug items were soaking up bleach.
Given that the washing machine was already running a load poop-shirt laundry, I did my best to rinse the rugs out in the sink. While I rinsed, I reflected on the sad fact that I STILL had no coffee in my system, and I was undoubtedly the WORST father in the world. And what in the name of all that is holy was that SOUND? A popping and hissing sound: it was loud enough to be heard over the washing machine, the faucet and the voices in my head.
And why did I smell burning plastic?
Because my coffee maker was on fire, that’s why.
Really. It was going to be one of THOSE kinds of days.
Yes, my Cuisinart coffeemaker was sitting there with a full pot of freshly-brewed coffee on the hotplate and smoke pouring out from all sides of the machine. The noise I heard was the electrical fire raging inside.
If you are looking for an small appliance that might destroy your home and kill you with fire, let me suggest the Cuisinart Classic 12-Cup Programmable Coffeemaker.
I called Cuisinart let them know that their product had gone all Jihad on me, and they were most apologetic. They even went so far as to offer me a replacement. I politely declined. A second incendiary device? No thank you.
It’s like my mom always said – “Try to kill me with fire once, shame on you. Try to kill me with fire twice, shame on me.”