(Getting creative here. Why trap them inside a cage when I can trap myself instead?)

The most important chore in my morning is to unload the dishwasher. It has bottles in it, see? Also, it seems to be that thing that determines how smoothly the rest of the day goes. Forget to unload it and watch the chaos ensue. I dare you.

My twins are almost one year old, and, like any babies, they love to crawl to the dishwasher. What’s the problem with that? Well, if the dishes are dirty, then you’ve got a baby with a sharp knife in one hand and a cutting board with chicken guts on it in the other. If the dishes are clean, you’ve got silverware in their mouth and dog-haired hands grabbing your plates.

I have to unload it while they are in the high chair. That’s my only choice. Unloading it at nap would mean waking the babies with loud noises. Also, I’ve got to get those bottles outta there and drying NOW!

First thing in the morning, I put the babies in their high chairs for their breakfast. They have a tray full of bananas, wheat bread, and some Cheerios. Things are quiet. Things are good. Today, I’m going to have this whole thing under control. I start to unload the dishwasher. I pull out the top rack. G is screaming because E stole his banana. I go retrieve it, yanking it from E’s tight grip, and then I have smooshed banana on my hands. I wash my hands.

I take two cups out and get them in the cabinet. E is choking. I run to him but then realize that the fact that I heard him choking means that he is cough-choking, which is fine. I watch him resume eating,  and start to go back to my dishwasher, when I remember that real choking is silent. If I’m unloading dishes, then my back is to them, and then I won’t know that they are silent-choking, and then they will die. I decide to sit and watch them eat. The dishwasher can wait.

I watch them eat while sitting beside them. Ugh, they’re fine. This is stupid. I’m going back to the dishwasher.

I unload a couple more glasses. I move on to the sippy cups. They are all wet. I have to dry them before I can put them back together. Wait, that dish towel is disgusting. Let me go get a clean one. Hmmm, can I leave the babies in their chairs while I run downstairs to the mountain of clean stuff in the laundry room (i.e., laundry closet)? Yes, yes I can.

I come back up to find the 100-pound dog eating bread right out of G’s hand. I scold her and chase her into her crate. I come back to the babies, thinking I should wash G’s hand, when I realize he’s already stuffing more food into his mouth with that hand covered in dog hair and dog slobber. Oh well, what does it matter anyway? He practically licks her coat all day.

I head back to the dishwasher. I can’t remember where I left that clean dish towel. Oh, well, the sippy cups can just sit in the sink to dry. I start to unload the bottles from the dishwasher, when I realize I have dog on my hands. I wash them again.

The babies scream. They are bored of Cheerios. I debate what else to give them. I should make them some scrambled eggs. They need protein. I abandon the dishwasher for the stove.  I put the pan on the stove and turn on the heat. I crack some eggs. As the eggs goober up my hands, R yells, “I have to go pee-pee!” while peeing on the floor. I do some quick calculations about ounces of milk versus the amount of time since the last potty trip, and want to shoot myself.

I pick him up, sit him on the potty, and yell at him to stay there. As I run for the paper towels and vinegar spray, the babies start to cry and give me the sign language for “drink” (i.e., wild hand gestures that might mean something). The dog whines in her crate. I run over to those still-wet sippy cups and start to fill them with water, when I realize I have “pee hands”. I wash them again.

R cries out, “I need you, Momma!” I abandon the sippy cups. As I race back to the bathroom, I pass the pan that is smoking on the stove, the eggs sitting on the counter, the babies crying for water, and the dog whining in the crate. This kid needs a bath. There is pee on his legs and feet. I do some quick prioritizing in my head, and decide that he gets sprayed with vinegar spray. He cries because it’s cold. Oh, well, it’s what we have to work with here. I can’t exactly throw him in the bathtub that is on another level of the house while babies sit in high chairs.

However, I do have to run upstairs to get new clothes for R. Can I leave the babies alone in their high chairs while I do that? Umm, well, they threw all their food on the floor already, so I guess there is nothing for them to choke on while I’m gone. I get the clothes, but R hates to be naked, so he’s screaming, “I don’t like that! I need underwears! I don’t like naked!” while I race back down the stairs.

I make R help me clean up the pee with paper towels. I mentally thank myself for having put the dog in the crate ahead of time, even though she was in there for some other reason. What was that reason again? Oh, yeah, the babies… and their food.

The babies are still crying in their high chairs. They are probably  lonely, or hungry, or thirsty, or something… Oh, right, I see the abandoned sippy cups and the smoking pan and the eggs on the counter. Right. Okay.

I look at the clock. Maybe they’re tired, because it’s almost time for morning nap. Forget the eggs. I turn the stove off. I wipe their hands with wipes. I get the babies down. What a mess! I handle the cleaning of the high chairs, and then I let the dog out of her crate to handle the cleaning of the floor.

What’s the noise? Oh, dang, I left the full dishwasher open. One baby is sitting in the dishwasher, drooling on (licking?) my clean dishes. The other baby is pulling out a sharp knife. I take the knife away, carry that baby far away from the dishwasher so he will have to crawl for a long time before he can get back there, but by then, the other baby has discovered that knife.  I take that away from him and carry him far away from the dishwasher so that he too will have to crawl for a really long time to reach it again. By this time, the first baby has reached the dishwasher again. I yell. I roar. I slam the dishwasher closed.

I have not unloaded the dishwasher.

Maybe Mr. Okayest will do it tonight when he comes home from work.