What a week it has been. It all started last Wednesday, with smegma. Or so I thought. I was in that post-period mental drive—ready to be productive, ready to obsess a little, and determined to keep myself rational. We’ve settled into a mostly productive routine… minus the gym, because we haven’t dared step foot in ChildWatch since the last meltdown, even with Nick there. At this point, I’ve accepted that—for my own mental health—I’m going solo. It’s not guilt anymore, it’s just acceptance of what actually works: fewer toddler germs in flu season, and the peace of knowing Evelyn isn’t in ChildWatch terrorizing the staff while I’m trying to breathe through a workout.
Anyway. Smegma.
I’ve been running Finn a lot because being part Aussie shepherd, part black lab, and part shar-pei means he’s essentially a caffeinated linebacker trapped in a dog’s body. After our morning cycle of fetch, we came inside and I saw him licking something off the carpet. Fun fact: dogs will clean up after themselves… but never in a way that helps you. I moved him, put on a glove (BSI scene is safe—if you know, you know), and—because mom instincts are feral—I smelled it. You HAVE to know what disaster cleanup level you’re about to commit to. It smelled like bleach. And ladies… let’s not be shy. When you smell it, you know it. It’s either wallpaper paste, glue, bleach, or… you know where I’m going with this.
So I did the thing I swore I’d never do. I asked ChatGPT: “Does dog semen smell like human semen?” And to my horror, the answer was yes, because it’s made of the same proteins and enzymes. Insert shock face and a very long “ewwwwwww.” Then I asked why my dog would spontaneously—ya know—on my carpet. It reassured me it can happen with overexertion or excitement, but that it was more likely smegma. Excuse my language, but WHAT THE F*?! This is where my education took a hard left turn and suddenly I’m learning smegma is a real scientific term for dog dick discharge (again, apologies for being crude). Seriously?! I’m laughing alone in the living room because who else am I going to tell?
And then I look over and Evelyn is loving Sally just a little too aggressively. Intervention required. I pry the unhappy kitten away from the toddler (the kitten was not squealing in a happy way), and Sally—grateful to be rescued—immediately discharges something onto my bare forearm. Only this time it’s not smegma. Oh no. It’s a bloody cluster of dead ringworms. WHAT. THE. ACTUAL. F***? I put her in the bathroom, scrub my arm like I’m prepping for surgery, move all her kitten supplies in with her, and take a breath. I check Evelyn for the same discharge… and that’s when it hits me like a freight train: Finn wasn’t licking up smegma.
I tell Evelyn we need to get changed and washed, and toddler brain hears “bathroom!” and bolts. I run behind her to yell, “NOT THAT BATHROOM,” but it’s too late—she opens the door and Sally rockets out like a furry torpedo down into the basement. Now I’m chasing a bloody-butt, worm bellied kitten through the basement while telling Evelyn to stay back from the stairs (miraculously she listens). I scoop up Sally, come upstairs, and see Finn walking out of the bathroom looking like a raver leaving a club after snorting a line. FUCK (this one deserves the spelling out)!! And that is right when Nick walks in. Perfect timing for him to witness me in full panic, sweating, and probably one ringworm sighting away from calling a priest. I explain everything at lightning speed, we get everyone situated, and when I finally breathe, I tell him about my smegma education. He laughs because all these years he thought I knew it was a real term and not just slang he tossed around.
And that was just Wednesday.
We had already woken up kind of throaty and sinusy, but by Thursday, Nick came home from work absolutely destroyed—body hurting, head pounding, fever blazing. So for days it was me checking on him, chasing a toddler, running an over-caffeinated dog, and cleaning up a wormy-butt kitten like that was my new unpaid internship. By Saturday, we were at the ER. Flu A had ravaged Nick and brought bronchitis and an upper respiratory infection along for the ride. Meanwhile, I’m convinced whatever my body thought about catching took one look at my week and said, “Nope. Not today. You can die after the holidays!” Fingers crossed. And at this point, I told Nick if it hits me like it hit him, put me in a hotel with meds and I’ll be content!
And then Friday happened. Poor Emily—my Monkey—took a nap before basketball practice, and the only thing I heard from her room was a groggy, “Mom? Can you come check this out?” I walked in to find her half awake, standing there with dead worms and poo on her pants, her bed, and her floor. She just looked at me and said, “I don’t know what’s happening.” Same, girl. Same. I sent her straight to the shower while I stripped her bed and started yet another round of cleaning because, for whatever reason, Sally decided that was the appropriate toilet for the day. She had literally never done this before. At this point, I don’t even know what round of chaos we were on. Five? Seven? Twelve?
Now, somehow, we’re all on the mend. Nick is up and moving—still chest-heavy but improving. Sally has been dewormed, as have all the adult cats. Finn is totally fine because of course he is. I’m napping when Evelyn naps. Nick is helping get the house back in shape. And I—because my brain needs chaos to stay busy—took up knitting. And today, thank God, I have counseling. God always manages to redirect me before I go fully feral. I had originally planned to write about how we all have a base need to feel chosen, but that’ll be a post for a calmer week when I can explain it without sounding like a malfunctioning Pinterest quote.
For now, I’m choosing to laugh at the chaos of how this week started. And honestly? I just want to go back to when I thought it was smegma.
Happy Thanksgiving. Here’s to gratitude, silver linings, and surviving the kind of week you truly can’t make up.
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