Last night I did it doggy style.

When I become rich and famous, I’m going to pay someone to be on full-time kitchen duty.

Because I hate cleaning up the kitchen.

Especially after dinner.

By the time 8:00 rolls around, it takes a considerable amount of effort, concentration, and energy for me to remain vertical.

Last night we had pasta.

With red sauce.

Pasta with red sauce always requires more clean up than other meals.

I had gotten dinner ready, and then I went for a run.

My husband gave the kids dinner while I was out.

When I came home, it looked as though someone had put dinner in a blender, threw the top out the window, turned it on extra high speed, and sat back and watched.

Still trying to avoid a lot of carbs, I had been planning on cooking some salmon for my myself when I got home.

I couldn’t even get to the stove.

So in an effort to recharge, I went and took a shower.

And then I got to work in the kitchen.

Number 6 and 7 usually watch Imagination Movers before they go to bed, and then my husband takes them upstairs.

My husband was in the playroom with them.

Number 7 wandered into the kitchen.

She wanted Cheerios.

We have a little kids table in the kitchen that 2 of the kids sit at to eat, because they can’t all fit at the counter.

I took a handful of Cheerios and put them on the little table.

No bowl.

Nothing.

At this point, I don’t really use dishes unless they are absolutely necessary.

I just put that shit directly onto the counter.

I mean, using plates and bowls is basically the equivalent of a dude peeing with the toilet seat down.

Some of the food stays on the plate.

But most of it ends up outside the plate.

Around its perimeter.

On the counter.

And the floor.

So why create more work?

I’m going to have to clean the counter anyway, right?

Number 7 stood right by the table and started eating her Cheerios while I was cleaning.

One by one she picked up her Cheerios and ate them.

I was impressed by how neatly she was eating.

So when she finished them and asked for more, I was more than happy to give them to her.

I put another handful on the little table.

And in one swift motion, using her arm as a Cheerio squeegie, she swiped every single one of them onto the floor.

All I could do was exhale.

I would get to the floor once I had the counters cleaned off.

My husband came into the kitchen.

“Time for bed,” he said, and he picked up Number 7 and carried her upstairs.

Number 6 came walking around the corner.

“I want some Cheewios,” he said.

“There are no more,” I lied.

“And it’s time for you to go to bed.”

I went back to the dishes.

A couple minutes passed.

I thought Number 6 had gone upstairs.

I was in a delirious, auto-pilot, get-this-mess-cleaned-up, haze.

“Number 6! Get up here!” my husband yelled from upstairs.

I didn’t even know Number 6 was still in the kitchen.

Well, I’ve reached a new low.

I turned around, and there he was.

On the floor.

On his stomach.

He was hoovering up those Cheerios with his mouth.

I had forgone the plates.

He had forgone his hands.

“Number 6! Get off the floor!” I said.

“Get upstairs!”

“I’m not Number 6,” he replied.

“I’m a doggy.”

And he went right back to lapping up Cheerios off the floor.

So what did I do?

Nothing.

Well, I pointed out a few stray Cheerios to Number 6.

I mean, the dog.

An then I went right back to the dishes.

Until I make my millions, I’ll take whatever help I can get.

PLEASE TAKE ONE SECOND TO VOTE FOR ME!!!

  All you need to do is click on the banner above to register a vote for me! 

 You can vote one time every 24 hours from every computer and cell phone! THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH!!! I really appreciate your support!

 Check out and “like” the not-your-average-mom.com facebook page!

Follow me on Twitter @mom_not_average