While out running errands this evening, I realized there was dog shit on my sneaker. I like dogs. I understand why people want to own them. However, I must admit to carrying a hint (sometimes more than a hint) of resentment for people who consider it their basic right to own a dog, but who don’t bother to pick their dog’s shit up off the sidewalk (or, based on the embedded wood chips, the ground at the park. You know, that place where kids play and babies put whatever they can get their hands on in their mouths). I also save some frustration for dogs let out to pee at 5:30 am and then left out there to bark their heads off for twenty minutes, but I digress…
I like our house for many reasons, but it lacks a set tub for the various gross cleaning jobs that are inevitable in life. I didn’t feel like scrubbing the bathtub tonight, so I decided when I got home I would leave my shoes on the deck and deal with the dog shit another day (note to self: we need to buy a garden hose).
I got home and learned there was another gross mess to clean up. The kind that is inevitable in parenting.
The bottom drawer in our bathroom includes a box of latex gloves. Originally purchased with first aid in mind, they have come in handy for many tasks since Kiddo graced us with his wonderful, and messy, presence. This was one of those tasks. We’re getting low on gloves, which I commented on as I put on one of the remaining pairs.
Kiddo must have been in ear shot. Just as I was getting started on the gross cleanup, a little voice came from behind me:
I turned around. Kiddo was bringing me the oven mitts.
“Thank you so much!,” I said–grabbing them before they could be contaminated by the grossness.
As it turned out, I had to scrub the bathtub tonight anyway. On the bright side, there is no longer dog shit on my sneaker. After all, who wants to clean the tub two days in a row.
(Almost deleted that last line. It feels a bit like tempting fate. But I don’t believe in such things…mostly