Last night, just as I was getting ready to put Audrey to bed, she spit up. Right down the back of my shirt, down my capris, and into my shoe. “Let’s wash this outfit tonight,” Dane suggested as he helpfully smooshed spit up between my toes with the cloth he was using to clean me off. Good plan, as I had already been wearing these clothes for 48 hours, and possibly they had begun emitting an interesting odor in their desire to be laundered.

But alas, it was not to be. Neither of us threw in another load of laundry after that, and this morning I was roused from bed by a sickening splash! Glug-glug-glug noise. I grabbed the nearest article of clothing (the aforementioned capris), kicked on my flip flops, and ran to the living room, where I discovered both children standing at the outskirts of a river of carrot juice flowing from a lidless extra-large sippy cup overturned on a couch cushion.

Seeing me, Abigail immediately runs for ONE paper towel and begins mopping; when she realizes it has fulfilled its paper towel calling in life, she turns to carry it dripping (flowing!) to the kitchen trash can. I grab a towel and try to mop around the perimeter of the spill, pushing the bulk of the liquid in to the center of the room, but I realize as I go that the splatter reaches FAR further than I had guessed. The clean laundry on the couch? Splattered. The tub of blocks on the far side of the room? Splattered. OWEN? Covered in splatter.

As I get close I note from the directionality of the juice stain on his jammies that Owen was most certainly at the epicenter of the splashdown. I pick him up and set him, fully clothed (er, jammied) in the bath tub. I tell him to undress and stay put, and, shockingly, he does exactly that. While he’s undressing, I toss the towel out onto the patio, gather the juice-speckled toys into the kitchen, and start frantically wet-swiffering the floor. I quickly realize that AT LEAST two separate passes will be necessary to get the orange sticky up. I move faster.

Owen begins pounding his feet against the shower floor, which makes a booming echo; I hiss for him to stop—Audrey is still asleep. Isn’t she? I peek in at her—eyes still shut. I turn back to the catastrophe, then wheel around again. WHY is Audrey still asleep? I check if her lips are blue. Nope. Healthy pink. Chest is still moving up and down; okay, we’re good. So she just chose an opportune morning to sleep in. Excellent. I bathe Owen and we start the carrot laundry rinsing. One crisis weathered, and it’s barely nine o’clock in the morning.

Only hours later, when Audrey leans over for the express purpose of spitting up in my lap, do I realize that I am still wearing the nasty three-day-old capris. And my pajama shirt.