Carla cranked her Katy Perry CD on her car stereo. These precious minutes from work to home were her only true escape. She tapped her fingers on the steering and reminisced about the days she only had to worry about herself. She loved being a parent, but sometimes keeping a home was just as tedious as work .
The tedium could come from a multitude of things, homework, bickering children, her children’s messy rooms, but the thing that annoyed her most was wet towels on the floor. No matter how many times she said it or posted it for them, one kid always left a wet towel on the floor. Because of this a new rule was put into place. Wet towel on the floor = no towel next shower. Wet swimsuit and towel on the floor = no swimming pool. So far the new rule seemed to be working.
Carla sighed. Katy Perry was singing about skin-tight jeans and romance. She wondered if Russel Brand left wet towels on the floor and if Katy Perry was annoyed by it. She shook her head in disgust, imagining piles of wet towels on the floor in their mansion. One thing she knew for certain, if she never had to say ‘Hang up your wet towel’ again, she’d feel like a superstar.
Carla started to sing but stopped. Her throat was a little sore from the lengthy phone conference she had that afternoon. She needed to save what voice she had left for her family. The sight of her street brought a smile to her face. The rows of houses with kids playing in the street and parents in the yard signaled that the work day was officially over.
Pink, purple and white flowers greeted her as she walked up their stone steps. Inside she could hear the voices of her children. She opened the door, they rushed to her side. Arms wrapped around her and kisses were planted on her checks.
“Well hello there. How was your day?”
“Mom, guess what, guess what?”
Giggles surrounded her. “No, not that.”
“I dove off the high dive today!”
Carla hugged her 12-year-old. “You did! That’s great.”
Carla looked at her younger child. “What about you? Did you dive off the high dive?”
“No, I was too scared.”
Carla brought her 11-year-old close to her. “That’s ok, someday you will.”
Carla set down her bag, put her cell phone away and walked into the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of wine while the kids chatted about the rest of the days events. When they’d told her everything she swirled the red liquid around her glass and breathed in the fragrant aroma. She went to take a sip, but stopped. Instead, she headed for the bathroom with her wine glass in hand. She pressed the door open with her toe. On the floor were two wet, crumpled towel. Carla squinted her eyes and gulped downed her wine. That was the night the story of the flesh-eating wet towel was told to her children at bedtime.
Read Part II Attack of the Wet Towel!