Don't mind me, I'm just having a mental breakdown...

I love my life, my kids, and Hubs. I DO. Really. But sometimes I feel like my head is going to explode, and on my gravestone will be written, 'She was a good girl, but sometimes she went a little mental.'

It was Father's Day night, we'd just returned from camping and finished eating supper, and I was getting Ryder ready for bed. As I went to place him in the crib to get him changed into his jammies (makes it easier if he's confined and can't constantly run away from me), he started to gag. I had literally like one second warning, just enough time to tip his upper body toward the bedding (so much easier to clean up when all you have to do is gather up the blankets, take note), and he let it loose. Only, I had angled his body in such a way that not only did the puke spray his entire bed, but all the bars of the crib, the wall behind the crib, AND...*drum roll*... my Ed Hardy purse. Which had just happened to be on the floor beside the crib (I use it as a diaper bag).

Now, if you know me you know that that purse is my most prized possession, I take it everywhere and love to act smug when people comment on it. What can I say, I'm a wannabe fashionista.

At this point, my brain was already smokin-hot with disgust and rage, so I wasn't thinking too clearly. If I'd had a working braincell, I would have placed Ryder in the soaked crib to finish his puking episode. But I wasn't thinking. And I put him down on his green shag area rug. Which he promptly covered in more puke.

I lost it.

Stripped the kid down to bare skin, gathered up all the nasty bedding and clothes and threw them in the hamper, then used like a hundred babywipes to wash him down. Put a clean diaper on him and foisted him off on the boys, so I could concentrate on wiping down the crib, walls, and area rug. I wasn't even going to let myself think about my purse at that point.

I realized after a few seconds that the mess was simply too much, too chunky, to use a dampened cloth. So I filled an icecream bucket with warm water and started scrubbing. At some point I noticed that my shirt was wet, but what I thought was puke spray was actually tears. I hadn't even noticed that I was sobbing my eyes out. I saw something out of the corner of my eye and turned to look, and saw Gunnar standing at the bedroom door, staring at me with obvious concern. He must've heard the insane wailing and wanted to see if I was okay. I couldn't even talk to reassure him that no, I wasn't in the midst of a mental breakdown (which would have been a lie), all I could do was weakly gesture to my purse. He got it.

And so during the half hour it took to wipe everything down, I just let myself cry it out. I was muttering, I was cursing, I was outright screaming at one point (probably when I realized that no amount of picking and scrubbing was going to get the chunks out of the shag area rug). I knew I was acting completely insane but I didn't care. It was so unfair! Why did this have to happen to me? Why did Hubs get to sit out in the livingroom and not even extend an offer of help? Just because it was Father's Day? Why should he be so special? Why was I cursed to have a child with such a sensitive gag reflex? Did he have to puke on every single bar of the crib, when they are impossible to clean without dismantling the entire thing and hosing it down? And for the love of God, why did he have to get my Ed Hardy purse?!!?

By the time I finished, with the cleaning AND the crying, I was in that hiccuping phase of crying and all I wanted to do was just go to bed for the rest of my life. But, being a FREAKING MOM, oh no, I had to remake the bed, get the little brat in his jammies, frantically spray the room and carpet with Febreze, make the brat's bottle and put him to bed, THEN and only then could I let myself think about my purse.

I was dreading to even look at it. How bad was the damage? I'd only seen the puke on one side of it, but what if it was entirely covered? What if the puke got inside the purse? What if it was all in the zipper and buckles?

My relief at seeing the actual damage was overwhelming. It wasn't that bad at all!! None got inside, and the zipper was safe. Still, there was enough on it that I had to spray it down with the shower nozzle at full-blast. Took a while (I had to obsessively go over every inch of the material), but it actually looked brand new when I was finished. I hung it up to dry.

Then I went into the livingroom and because misery loves company, and I was a miserable bitch just then, I let Hubs have it. In that super-sweet voice most men have learned to fear, I said "Thank you sooo much for all the help in there, I really appreciate it. It meant so much to me that you cared about my mental state and came to see if I was alright and needed some help." Of course, he blustered and got defensive, typical man. But I'd said my piece so I just let it drop and went to my room to read and chain smoke and chill myself out.

But I got my revenge an hour later when Hubs went out to unload the bikes from the trailer and all the other gear that was in there. Because we'd driven home in the rain on gravel roads, everything was covered in grimy sandy dirt, including the motorhome. Rather than go to the carwash to clean it all (and end up spending like a hundred bucks) he washed it himself with our little pressure washer. It was raining outside, and between that and the backspray from the pressure washer, he was soaked in seconds. He was out there for over an hour. And did I offer to help? NO.

What goes around, comes around, baby.