It's a rare talent I have, getting nostalgic like this.

We had our carpets professionally cleaned today for the first time since we've lived in this particular humble abode, and true to form, this had me thinking sentimental Anne Shirley-esque thoughts as I said goodbye (hopefully forever) to various stains.

I'm a goober I know, but these stains, some more visible than others, are like little milestones marking my voyage through motherhood and wifeydom. Obviously I'm hormonal or something. Or maybe it's the non-toxic fumes or the booties.

{Not that kind of booty. These kind of booties.}

That stain over there, in the corner just steps from the bathroom, (just pretend like you can see it) is where Bosco threw up for the first time. I believe there are few things as awful and heartbreaking as watching a baby, especially your baby, wretch. Oh the look on his face as he wonders why his little body has seemingly betrayed him! Confusion, sadness, hurt, sickness, wonder, amazement, anger, helplessness all wrapped up into one impossibly pitiful look. And there's simply nothing that can be done to ease matters. It must run it's course. Only comfort (and juice) can be offered. Then repeat that cycle at least five more times before the day is done, and you've got a full blown obstacle course on your hands. The stain at the bottom of the stairs happened during round three I believe.

That day I learned I could be a mom in good times and in bad, and a calm collected mom at that. Was never entirely convinced of it beforehand. Oh the doubts! Also, it turns out I have enough strength to clean up another person's vomit if need be. Up until that point I was always very unsure I had that in my make up. Well I do. At least for my kids I do.

Now what about that area over there in the hallway, or over there to the right, and in that spot right here? Well that marks Bosco's potty training progression of course! That was a fun year, OR TWO. Those stains remind me that I'm not a very patient person, probably never will be to any great degree, and that I don't particularly like to clean up urine, especially if it belongs to someone else. Who knew throw up would be easier for me than pee. That right there is a sentence I never imagined myself writing. I surprise myself everyday in the most fantastic of ways. 

Now may I turn your attention to the myriad of other spots. Those belong to the Husband, who likes to wear his shoes every where he goes, even in his own home, even when covered in motor oil or mysteriousness. He does not believe the phrase, "Take off your shoes. Make yourself at home" (or is it take off your coat?) Of course he likes to leave his shoes on all the time because he wants to be in a constant state of readiness if ever he has to suddenly leave the house. Fire! I'm ready! Wife needs a slushie! I'm ready! Ice cream truck! Ready! Bees are invading the entire house! You know I'm ready!

Well this is indeed an admirable desire to possess but I would be lying if I said it wasn't the cause of some marital discord from time to time. Beyond the dirt factor, I have a general dislike for all shoes constrictive in nature, so always seeing them on the Husband irks me. Irks me something fierce. What, are you itchin' to leave boy? But there simply were no compromises to be had regarding this matter. No pair of "house shoes" to agree upon. No pleas for "just take them off and relax" accepted.

Many a time I've seen the Husband ready for bed, in his pajamas or whatever it is men call the stuff they go to sleep in, and he would have his shoes on, which means, he took the shoes off to get ready for bed, and then put them back on! To get a drink of water! Or whatever! This is what married people call Something I Didn't Know About My Partner Until We Got Married. But who am I to talk. I have to have the television on Channel 5 and set to volume level 8 before I can turn it off.  

But anyway, those stains are indeed plentiful and serve as a great reminder that you cannot change your loved ones, particularly in matters of the foot. And you most definitely cannot teach an old dog, or even a slightly old dog, new tricks. As a wife, I've learned this lesson time and time again, but have yet to fully accept it's truthfulness and harness it to my advantage. Work in progress.

And now finally who could forget that one place in the hall downstairs. Yes right there. That's where my water broke. Cheers! And Bubba joined our family a few hours later (in the hospital, not the hallway). Another little person to leave marks all his own.

But right now it's a clean slate so to speak. All those stains, gone, which I'm pretty happy about because GROSS. But if I'm lucky there will plenty more where those came from.

{oh Bosco where are you?}