real life

One Little, Two Little, Three Little Vacuum Cleaners… (Okay, Four)

Let me just say it: this is not something you can make up. You’d think I’d learn after vacuum #1. Or #2. Or maybe even #3. But no. This is real life, and in this house, it took One Little Two Little Three Little Vacuum Cleaners (four vacuums) to clean one stinky boys’ room.

Some things should stay inside the four walls of your home, but here I am… telling the internet.

This is a no-judgment zone, right?

The Great De-Funking

The mission was simple: tackle the disaster zone that was my boys’ bedroom. The smell alone could knock you down. I didn’t want to subject any innocent human (myself included) to it, but it had to be done.

I was in a hurry. The kids—all six of them—warned me. One by one, they said, “Mom, don’t go in there,” or “Mom, let us help,” but I brushed them off. I didn’t want them to see me purging the clutter (or throwing away things they’d surely argue to keep).

I gutted the room except for the beds. One bunkbed and a captain’s-style bed with drawers underneath. I had piles everywhere: Legos, clothes, stuffed animals, papers, dress-up clothes—you name it.

Then came the Bumblebee.

Vacuum #1 – R.I.P. Bumblebee

This big, bright yellow vacuum was my pride and joy. I pulled it out, determined to suck up every crumb, dust bunny, and unidentifiable object off the floor.

From there, I stretched the hose into the tiny closet, the vacuum sitting peacefully in the middle of the room. Honestly, I was completely focused on cleaning out the grime. So focused, in fact, that I ignored a growing smell of smoke.

Then came the kids again:
“Mom, the hallway is filled with smoke.”
“Something’s burning.”
“Do you smell that?”

I brushed them off—because I was in the zone. And because I didn’t see smoke, surely there was no smoke.

Wrong.

I finally glanced over at the vacuum and had a fleeting thought: I thought this vacuum was yellow… not orange.

That’s because it was on fire.

Turns out I had sucked up a pair of Catfish’s nylon army pants. They got tangled in the roller, heated up, and caught fire. I unplugged it as fast as I could, but it was too late. The pants were toast, and so was my beloved vacuum. Not the “pull it apart and clean it out” kind of dead. Nope. This was the “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” kind of dead.

Vacuum #2 – Bissell and Betrayal

After the loss of Bumblebee, I turned to my trusty Bissell hardwood floor vacuum. Lightweight, sleek, and oh-so-satisfying with its “ping ping” sound when it picked up dirt.

Big Daddy thought I was vacuuming too much with it when we first got it. I thought I was simply embracing joy.

But this vacuum was not made for carpet.

Yet, there I was again—zipping through the house, trying to finish cleaning. And what did I see surrounding me? A trail of smoke.

Yep. My sweet little Bissell was on fire too. Strike two.

Vacuum #3 – Borrowed and Burned

My dear friend Melissa lent me her vacuum. I was overjoyed. A “real” vacuum again! Surely, this time would be different.

I used it.

Loved it.

I returned it.

A few days later, Melissa called:
“I think my vacuum is on fire.”

Bless it. I burned up her vacuum too.

Vacuum #4 – And Still, She Smelled Smoke

Someone else gave me a really nice, used vacuum—big and sturdy. I was cleaning again this week when it happened.

You guessed it.

Smoke.

Again.

I Don’t Get It.

Seriously, I just don’t get it. I like to vacuum. Honestly, I really do. I love the instant gratification of seeing messes disappear. But for the life of me, I cannot figure out how I’ve managed to set FOUR vacuums ablaze.

Is it me? The house? Is it a sign to stop cleaning?

All I know is, the next time the kids tell me something is wrong, I should probably listen.

Be a Warrior, Not a Worrier

Vomit and a One-Eyed Rooster Named Nugget and the Complexities of Life

It’s a beautiful fall day. The wind whips through the trees, the clouds float around like cotton balls, and the smell of burning leaves fills the air. Sadly, inside, there’s also the smell of vomit. Ah, the little moments of life that keep you on your toes.

Sweet Nothings

As I was peacefully sleeping, my sweet husband crawled into bed, and I thought I was hearing the sweet whisperings of love in my ear. But no, it was him saying, “Peach just puked in her bed.” Ah, nothing gets a girl moving like that! Bless his heart, he took care of the mess, shaking out the chunks from the blanket, and managed to toss them near the patio and boxwood out back. He even washed the blanket for me.

Puker #1 & Puker #2

I went downstairs to check on the poor puker, Peach, who was sitting by her puke bowl looking pretty miserable. I asked if she wanted to come upstairs to sleep on the couch, and she agreed. We made her bed and got her settled in for the night. Everything seemed calm. Everyone was asleep, and B was off to work, when in stormed Boo.

“Catfish just puked up some vegetables in his bed!” Oh great, that’s disgusting. I’m not a “vomiter,” but I am great at cleaning up the aftermath. Sadly, the whole thing was just too much to handle at once. I walked into Catfish’s room to find chunks of green beans, corn, and some other unidentifiable substance. Trying not to blow chunks myself, I cleaned up the mess.

Throwing Chunks

After gathering the nastiness, I decided to be efficient and throw Catfish’s puke out front while Peach’s got tossed out back. I shook out what I could behind the boxwood, and then walked through the house, only to realize my feet were sticking to the floor.

My sweet husband had cleaned out Peach’s bed, but in his rush, he wasn’t super careful. Vomit droplets were scattered all through the hall, the dining room, the kitchen, and even the laundry room. Gross doesn’t even begin to describe it. I had to mop, mop again, and mop a third time, but when I thought I was done, I realized I still hadn’t gotten it all. Lesson learned.

4 Down

Since I couldn’t get the chunks out of Catfish’s bed or the floor, I resorted to using the vacuum cleaner. I sprinkled baking soda on the mattress and carpet, and just when I thought I could rest, I turned to see Bug—green, but not with envy—she was blowing chunks too.

I gave her and D some Phenergan to settle their stomachs, then they went back to bed. Boo was the only well one, so I let him play the Wii while I tried to rest. He later took the dogs outside and came back complaining that the cold air made his belly hurt. Ugh. I had four sick kids upstairs resting, and one healthy one. Meanwhile, I cleaned the house and took care of business.

Nugget the One-Eyed Rooster

After mopping again, I went out to check on the chickens. My four hens and Big Red, the rooster, were waiting for their breakfast and fresh water. I gladly obliged. I do enjoy my chickens. The boxes that the kids and neighbors had made were ready for some wood chips, so I brought them into the bedroom/bathroom section of the coop.

And then, there he was—Nugget, aka Einstein, perched high up on a shelf. Something was different. He was missing an eyeball. Nugget had always been the smallest of the bunch, and the hens never treated him well, so I suspected they’d pecked him. It was a sad sight, but Nugget seemed to be doing okay, still hanging on in his own way.

Vomit and a One-Eyed Rooster