CSI: Minneapolis

They have surprised me yet again. Just when I think I know exactly how my children will react in any situation, they go and take me by surprise. Yesterday, I discovered that my children have skills and talents beyond what I ever imagined. I uncovered some truths about my children of which I was not aware. Perhaps it is in their genes. Coursing through their blood. Years of ancestral ne’er-do-wells passing down their genetic material to my children. After yesterday, I have come to the conclusion that my kids would make the perfect accomplices if I ever wanted to go on a violent crime spree. They appear to be savants when it comes to covering up a crime scene. They have an innate talent for evidence tampering. Allow me to explain.

Yesterday was not a good day. I was cramping all day. Work was busy. Stressful. It was rainy and dreary. I left work in the midst of a storm and arrived home tired and wet and bloated. In a bout of pure stupidity, I had promised to bake a strawberry cake for a coworker's birthday the following day. So I had to drag all three of my children to Target to pick up a few groceries. When we arrived home, amidst wrangling my highly energetic (I have no idea what the hell Ruanita fed them yesterday) children, I prepared to bake my cake. As I was sifting flour, I turned the oven on to pre-heat it. Within a matter of minutes, smoke was pouring from the oven. The top, the sides, through the door. Toxic smoke was pouring out of every crevice possible. My throat began to ache and I quickly shuffled the children out of the kitchen. I turned the oven off and opened the windows to let in the heat and humidity and let out the toxic fumes. Covered in sweat, I ended up scrubbing the entire inside of the oven once it had cooled completely. Some sort of goopy I-don't-know-what on the bottom of the oven was creating the smoke. After spending a good chunk of the afternoon at Target and then scrubbing my oven, I was finally getting around to baking my cake when Nicholas walks into the kitchen hugging a blankie and says, “Momma, I'm sorry. I accidentally let Stella in.”

I didn't look at him. Rather, I absentmindedly asked, “Let her in where, Nicky?”

“Let her in your bedroom,” he responded. He had been drawing a picture for me and had gone upstairs to put it on my nightstand.

Immediately, I sprang into action. I screamed at the children to stay downstairs as I ran up the stairs. Upstairs was the domain of our evil kitty. In no circumstances should the dog be allowed up there. I sprinted up the stairs two at a time, surprising myself more than anyone else. I entered my bedroom to find Stella and Molly already in the throws of a full-on battle. I tried repeatedly to throw a blanket over the cat so I could separate them, to no avail. The cat was intent on attacking. Every time I tossed the blanket on her, she would quickly, and with amazing agility, find her way out of the blanket and start attacking the dog again. The dog, of course, was not a docile spectator. Though incredibly sweet, she is not above protecting herself. At one point, Stella had Molly completely in her mouth flinging her around. I was pretty much certain at that point that the dog was going to inadvertently kill the cat and I was going to have not go downstairs and explain that to my children. At one point, I threw the blanket over Molly and tried to pick her up. She wriggled free of the blanket and dug her claws deeply into my left arm and my right hand. Several more time, I found myself punctured before I was finally able to subdue Molly with the blanket and pull Stella by the collar into the bathroom. I slammed the door separating my bedroom and bathroom and pulled Stella through the office.

As I dragged Stella down the stairs, I realized that my hand was bleeding profusely. I stood in the living room with blood pouring out of my hand and dripping onto the floor while I asked Lucas to pull Stella's crate out of the corner. I managed to get her into the crate in the kitchen and she immediately calmed down and laid quietly in her crate, obviously shaken.

When I walked back into the living room, I found my kids in motion. The encounter had left me rattled. I was shaking like a leaf and breathing heavily. My children had entered into some sort of zone. They were taking charge of the situation. Nicholas was down on the floor with wipes, cleaning up the blood I had dripped everywhere. Lucas had grabbed a towel for me and was wrapping it around my bleeding hand. He had also already brought out all of the boxes of assorted Strawberry Shortcake and Shrek band-aids. Sophie quickly announced that she was standing guard over the animals. After I managed to clean myself up with shaky hands, I went upstairs to assess the damage to Molly. I was certain she was breathing her last breath at that very moment.

I found the cat cowering in fear under my bed. She was covered in blood and smelled of urine. To coax her out of bed, I had the kids bring me her cat food. I filled her bowl and managed to ease her out from under the bed to assess her. As I looked her over and petted her and felt for injuries, I was amazed to find that Molly did not have a scratch on her. She was shaken, but not harmed at all. The blood smeared in her fur apparently belonged to Stella and me. After assessing Molly, I walked to the other side of my bedroom to a gruesome scene. Blood was splattered on my closet. Smeared all over the bathroom door. Droplet of blood coated practically every square inch of my bathroom floor. Clumps of cat hair covered my bedroom floor, as well. I grabbed some wet washcloths and began cleaning the blood spatter.

When I finished cleaning upstairs I walked downstairs to check on Stella. I found bloody hand prints on the wall in my stairwell. Definitely added to the crime scene ambiance we had going. After checking Stella over, I quickly came to the conclusion that I received the bulk of the injuries in this cat/dog fight. Stella had a small cat scratch under her eye and one on her nose that had bled quite a bit, but had since stopped. I petted her and calmed her as I cleaned her up.

The kids then helped me search the house for additional bloody prints and splatter. They dutifully helped clean them all up, as well. The kids were like hounds, sniffing out any and every piece of evidence they could find of our bloody brawl. By the time my children were finished with their sweep, there was not a single drop of evidence left that would make anyone think blood had been shed in my house. As my kids were cleaning, I was taking mental notes of their newly discovered skills.

Let me issue a warning to all of my enemies. You would be wise to heed my words. If you continue to bug the shit out of me, my kids can quickly and effortlessly dispose of all forensic evidence.

Pretty cool, huh?