I'm Not Writing About the Trashcan.

Hossmom wants me to write about something that my son did, Bubba Hoss.  She wants me to write about how he dropped a very full trashcan down the stairs.  That's what she thinks I should write about.
She can suck it.

I'll tell you why.

My wife told my son to bring the trash can downstairs.  Apparently she meant her little bitty trashcan by her bed.  It's a small trashcan, just really a bucket.  No problems.  But my wife made the mistake of not realizing that she was talking to a child who pays about as much attention to what you really say as does a cat.

He didn't grab the little trashcan.  He grabbed the big trashcan in the laundry room.  He grabbed the one that sucks up all the gross from upstairs that they don't want to bring downstairs. I'm pretty sure it's a gateway to hell.   It's almost as tall as him and certainly weighs more than his little stick self.

He did his best to bring it downstairs and I guess technically he did.  He did by dragging it to the top of the stairs and then watching it heavily fall all the way down.  Boom, boom, boom, trash is everywhere.
That's what Hossmom wants me to write about.  But I won't.

I won't because after this avalanche of trash came descending down, what did she do?  She began laughing.  She began laughing hard.  And that's all she did.

And that's what I'm writing about.

Why is it me that has to clean up this mountain of grossness?  Why do have gloves on and a broom in one hand?  I was doing yard work all day.  I was cleaning the garage.  I was about to build a chair!  I just came in for some water and a bit of rest as it started raining.  I trimmed all the bushes, I pulled all the weeds.  It was my break time.  I'm going to inform the union.  Oh, I have a union.  I'm the president and the only voting member.  It can get a bit crazy at times.

But no, now I'm here picking up trash before the baby can play in it.  And believe me, the baby would play in it.  He is drawn to destruction like moth to a flame.  If something is going down that involves injury or contagious disease, he knows exactly where he wants to be.  Right now he is in Hossmom's arms.  Yup, she's playing the mother card on me.  Oh, I have to look after the baby, my baby, I have to hold my baby.  We can't let the baby play in the trash, what kind of parents would we be.  Oh, let me hold the baby, it's truly the harder job.  Here, you'll need this new trash bag.

If Hossmom would have said "Bubba Hoss, grab the small trashcan from beside mommy's bed" every thing would have been fine.  But no, she made a rookie mistake and gave vague instructions to a boy that thinks every instruction involves twirling in a circle.  Tell the boy to get in the car and he'll do it in maybe under an hour, twirling and hopping all over the house until he gets there.

I'm left doing the trash.  Now she'll say that she has been upstairs doing spring cleaning all day.  She'll say that she's had the kids for the whole weekend while I'm playing outside.  She'll say that she gave birth and that trumps everything.  She was on drugs when she gave birth, did you know that.  Yup, she was on the epidural train, high as a kite.  She didn't even yell at me and she originally wanted to name our son Yustus.  True story.  High as high gets.  Thank god I was there or we would have baby Theodore Yustus Penmenship running towards the trash.  Now she is mother of the year.

It's the laughing that gets me as I pick this vile crap up.  Why is she laughing?  Why does she think it's funny?  Is it funny because it's exactly something that one of my spawn would do?  Is it just in our nature to wreck everything, to repeatedly destroy every possession?  Our family motto is "NO WICKER IN THIS HOUSE!"  Laugh, laugh, laugh.

And seriously, what kind of kid just throws a full trash can down the stairs?  Did he honestly think the top would stay on?  Probably.  Let's be honest, that's what was going through his monkey brain.  He claims it was an accident and he has his mother to back him up.  But I know better.  He couldn't resist.  It's in our genes.  I would also bet that his sister was right behind him telling him to do it.  I love my kids but I sure as hell don't trust them.  Perhaps that's what being a real parent is all about.

So no one can get into trouble here.  I don't make my son clean up with me because honestly he would just dance in it and make it worse.  My daughter is suddenly incognito and my wife is sitting on the couch laughing like a hyena.  

I pick up what looks to be a cross between dryer lint and cat puke.  That's what I do.  That's how I am providing for my family.  It stinks, it smells like, well cat puke wrapped in dryer lint.  Let that sink into your brain for a minute.

I'll plot my revenge and it won't be pretty.  This summer I'm going to the pool every day, every god damn day.  And I'm going to send her pictures of me at the pool every day with little Yustus.  And at the pool, I'm going to have a frilly drink with an umbrella in it, non alcoholic of course.  Then we'll see who's laughing.

And no more trash cans upstairs.  That's the new rule.  Pool every day with an umbrella drink, no trash cans upstairs, and no wicker in the house.  That's our new family motto.

She was like a drug addict when she gave birth.  Just want to throw that out there one more time.

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