Coming Undone by Maeve Kousiakis
“Haggis! Oh my god, do you have to . . . every . . . time. Aarrgg. That is so utterly, despicably horrible.” In her attempt to conserve energy in order not to throw up, Meghan had deserted the toddler’s nappy and focused on the dirty bum first, so the nappy had found itself sneakily ensconced in pug drool on its way to being devoured at a quieter retreat.
Just twenty minutes ago, Meghan was on her back on the couch with little Billy fast asleep on her chest and Haggis the pug, unusually, asleep at her feet. She had heard the Barbet calling from the tree outside the window and the smell of rain wafting through the breezy curtains in a smidgen of short-lived peace.
Billy had stirred, realised that he had lost the battle against keeping his eyes open and broken into a howl. The pug, now recharged, had made an instant beeline for Billy’s bottom, producing an explanation for the smell increasingly asserting itself.
Meghan got up holding the toddler while fending off the persistent pug still tugging at the nappy. Once up, she realisied there was a reason she had been on the couch. Nausea welled up and all the previous nights cocktails were diluted to an insipid cup of tea.
Meghan, putting Billy on his back, prepared for the onslaught of yuk and got lost in her thoughts about how last night’s “Girl’s Night Out” was maybe not that worth it after all, and that hangovers and kids go together like custard and sardines.
A tip that people conveniently left out about having kids. Just like the other little things. Small, nasty details like stomach muscles that separate during pregnancy that give you a lifelong paunch and that you will never jump on a trampoline again without soaking your knickers because the muscles down there no longer take part in bladder control. It’s a long list.
“Get a baby sitter. Go out. It’s good for you.” The advice had fed a nagging urge for a taste of life before kids. Meghan was in love with motherhood, but sorely missed the world of music and movies and fine dining.
Snapping back to the stinky chore at hand, Meghan had caught sight of the escaping pug. She clambered over the floor peppered with toys, catching up with it on its way to the garden for an appetizer of toddler excrement.
Forcing the pug between her legs as she knelt, she grappled sticky gels and teeth, prying open stubborn jaws. The pug, not ready to relinquish it’s find, scrambled and jumped at her hands as she stood up.
Managing to connect a tooth with the nappy, the pug succeeded in presenting the cream carpet directly to the mushy, digested bits of last night’s supper. Stumbling as it returned to the ground from its attack, the pug landed on top of the face-down-mess, introducing the soft goo very much more intimately to the dry carpet fibers.
Gagging, Meghan lifted it up and stumbled back to the drawer and grabbed the box of nappy bags. It was empty. The new box sat staring at her in defiance in making any step through this maize of chaos easier for her. She grabbed it and ripped it open with her teeth, while dangling the rescued nappy between finger and thumb.
The pug, undeterred in its course of action, was frantically licking the carpet. It’s back legs circling the front, head and mouth fixed to the carpet, as it desperately tried to ingest carpet and delicious condiment, while Billy was whining to be picked up.
“Gimme a second Billy-boo. I’ll get you now. Mommy’s got a small, tiny little challenge here.” She dashed out to the kitchen dustbin (which had found a new lookout position on top of the counter to avoid further raiding by the pug) and grabbed cloths and floor cleaner.
The toddler, as toddlers do, did not stay still. He rolled over and down the side of the bed and landed firmly with his bum - more of last night’s digested supper sandwiched between bum and carpet - and toppled onto his back. Wriggling over to his stomach and up to a sitting position, a brand new artwork of contrasting brown smudges on cream canvas appeared.
Meghan got back to multiple wounds to the cream carpet. (Another thing to add to the list of conveniently forgotten details: Don’t have cream carpets. Actually, don’t have carpets at all).
Lifting up the toddler, before he realised that the brown stuff on the carpet could make more streaks with the help of his fingers, Meghan fumbled with the bottle of carpet cleaner. It fell. She expertly swung the toddler - with bum side to jersey – under her arm attempting to catch it. The carpet cleaner bottle bounced and released its contents, which spread over the carpet and neatly missed the scene of destruction it was supposed to have addressed.
Meghan threw her head back and sighed as she realised the state of her jersey.
“Fuck. Could it get any worse.” She said loudly.
What was that crash? Where was that pug? She ignored both worrying sentiments to attend to her and Billy’s imminent hygiene needs.
“Billy-boo, if you squirm around it’s just going to take longer.” Said Meghan, her fingers straining to press the Velcro tag into place while holding the other flapping side of the new nappy, her arms pinning down the chest and flailing limbs of the toddler.
This had all become second nature, but doing it with a hangover in tow was brand new territory. A half a bag of wet wipes later, she was able to strip off her brown smudged jersey, grab Billy and head for the new source of necessary damage control.
At the kitchen door, Meghan gasped. The pug, covered in Neapolitan source, which she had thrown in the dustbin last night, was gorging itself on chicken bones and nappy entrails. Bits of litter and left over food and serviettes were strewn all over the floor, dotted with vegetable skins and crusts of soggy bread. A discarded bottle of juice had come open on its way down from the top of the counter with the dustbin and settled itself in between the rest of the detritus.
A draw had been left open, which the demon pug had clambered up and found a way to the dustbin. In it’s desperation in turning over the dustbin, it had knocked over the kettle, adding a liter of water to the concoction covering the floor. Another casualty of the incident was the minced meat sitting on the counter, defrosting for supper.
Meghan stood defeated. Shoulders drooped and head back, she groaned.
“Fuck.” Said little Billy.
She whipped her head around to look at him, innocence incarnate on her hip.
“Fuck.” He repeated with a big, wide grin, eyes wide with excited pride, searching for approval.
Meghan collapsed on the couch and pulled her cell phone out of her pocket.
“Hi. Matthew? Honey, help. Please can you pick up some supper on your way home? Your wife is currently out of order. Oh, and Billy said his first word!”