It Was a Spy Trick

Yep. Mopping totally relaxes me.

Have I mentioned the apple juice story?  No?  Probably because the wounds are recent and have yet to completely scab over.  (Too vivid? Sorry.)

I'm beginning to believe children have a natural tendency to appreciate the beauty of a waterfall, in whatever form it may be.  They stop and stare, frozen in awe over the wonder of thundering liquid.  Which is why, I'm pretty sure, no one freaking moves when an entire half gallon of apple juice is flooding the kitchen a mere twelve inches from their hands.  The same hands that are so powerful they could reach out and upright the overturned container, effectively stopping the flow of sweet nectar that is drenching the wood table, chairs, and floor.  The only thing that breaks the spell of this aqueous wonderment is Mama, screeching like a banshee from the living room, "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SOMEONE PICK UP THE BOTTLE!"

The children will then spring into action, grabbing kitchen towels and throwing them haphazardly onto apple juice puddles, all the while neglecting the still flowing apple juice bottle that is fully prostrate, the outpouring turning from the roar of a deluge, to a thin, steady trickle as it offers it's bounty unflaggingly.

Mama will lunge towards the bottle and reach it as the last drop connects with the floor.  She will hold the empty container in her tightly clamped fist, gazing with disbelief between the lake of Juicy Juice to the four children staring meekly everywhere except Mama.

"Whaa... why... how come ... not one of you ... Dude."  At this Dude, the kids will wilt, knowing if Mama has been rendered speechless, it's probably just another day in paradise not a great thing.

This is when Mama will notice that there are several apple juice footprints trailing around the kitchen from the brief flutter of activity when every kitchen towel owned was tossed to stem the flow.  She will banish all her children to the couch where they are to wipe up their feet with baby wipes and not.move.a.muscle. afterwards.

Once all the apple juice towels are wrung out and the floor is left really wet and tar paper sticky, Mama will realize the dining set also needs to be addressed.  It has been coated in a layer of gorgeous stain (you can purchase at Meijer) called Juicy Juice Apple.  Also the felt pads on the bottom of the chairs that prevent the brand new-ish wood floor from succumbing to large scrapes and gashes from children dragging chairs repeatedly around the kitchen to make trains the daily wear and tear of life are completely saturated, which means they need to be scraped off and new ones applied.  She will take care of this task and leave the four chairs upside down in the family room while she gets out (this is where an angel chorus sings and a halo appears around it) the Shark Steam Mop.

After she has quickly and efficiently steam mopped the scene of the crime, Mama will feel accomplished and driven to mop the whole kitchen and laundry room as long as she already has the mop out. (Also because her children are frightfully still on the couch, waiting to see if they are in any more trouble.)(But don't worry, they are frightfully still in body only; their mouths are still fully tormenting one another about who is really to blame.  Was it Hosanna who left out the juice or Ezra who spilled it?  Was is Eve who failed to upright the bottle or Esther who made the most footprints? Mama lets them "debate" because it is a family activity.)

Once the mopping is finished, the family will get in the car and go for a long drive.  This is an excellent coping mechanism for when Mama is about to lose her d*mn mind and wants to preserve the hearts of her children even though she wants to throttle them a little.  After a solid 45 minutes the whole family will return home, peaceful and anticipating lunch time.

Spreader of juice, killer of dreams.

It will take approximately four steps on the freshly mopped floor to realize that while a thorough job was done on the floors, the lovely cloth cover that sheaths the steam mop head had initially soaked up all the apple juice, effectively making it so that the entire floor was mopped with apple juice and not steam.  Now the whole kitchen floor and laundry room are coated with a thin film of sticky deliciousness.

Awesome.

Mama might cry.  A little.

She will take a look around and decide all four chairs need to go outside on the back patio, where she can pretend they don't exist for a while.  The monstrosity of a pedestal table will need to be gently moved into the family room so the kitchen floor can be washed with vinegar and water.  This will happen with a lot of grunting and internal curse words.

Forty five minutes flies by when one is riding in the car listening to Harriet the Spy on cd, but forty five minutes spent on hands and knees washing and drying 190 square feet of wood flooring is ... well, it's sum bul-loney is what it is.

Thankfully at the end of the day, the floors will sparkle and Mama will reassess, far removed from the apex of the disaster(s), and thank the good Lord that she has brand new-ish wood floors to wash, and four sweet little sets of hands to spill juice, and a husband that will come home and not ask any questions but cheerfully go outside and wash four chairs that are still on the back patio. (Syke! That thankfulness comes next week.)

Or maybe not.  Because next week, this will happen.

Esther: (balancing on the step between the kitchen floor and the sunken family room, holding her cup from breakfast) Mama, wouldn't it be the best spy trick if I spit my orange juice into my hands and then threw it back into my mouth?!?!
Mama: (super distracted because they are running late and have to leave the house in ten minutes and is trying to change Ezra's diaper so she can get him dressed and brush his teeth.)  Yeah, honey, that'd be cool.  Be careful with your cup, I don't want you to spill.
Esther: (fully spits orange juice onto her hands, kitchen floor, and family room carpeting)(looks dumbfounded because everything is dripping.)
Mama: (maybe looking/sounding a tad like a charging T-Rex)  WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
Esther: (reacting to angry T-Rex, chucks the partially full cup on the kitchen floor, grabs her formerly clean hair with orange juice hands, and cries) IT WAS A SPY TRICK!

Deep breaths.  It was a spy trick y'all.