Thick and Chunky.

I grew up on the DEW line. Or maybe I grew up north of the DEW line. I’m not entirely sure, but whatever the latitude and longitude of it, distant and early warnings have never done me any favors. Neither have the ones up close and personal. Like the whole face-meets-concrete episode. Or that sleeping-beside-dead-husband thing.  

Or the thick-chunky-and-red-hued ooze inching its way across my floor. For the second time.

We are knocking on midnight and the four little creatures that have brought smiles, laughter and contentment to an afternoon hard won have suddenly turned my floor into a scene from the Exorcist.

First one. And then another.

Which has me eyeballing the other two for any signs of suspicious intestinal movement. Mentally reviewing the verbal contract I made to sleep in the middle. Calculating how much saran wrap is needed to cover the carpet they will be sleeping on. And effectively putting an end to the year-long gastronomical fascination I have had with tomato soup.

And any thoughts I might have had regarding cheese curds.

And yet the repulsive and revolting mess that four bath towels have not yet brought under control is oddly comforting. Not because it is seeping into the grout and activating stomach muscles that have been happily dormant since the last diaper exited the building, but because this simple moment means more than all of the moments in a day filled with moments.

Even if Linda Blair’s leftovers are all over my floor.