The elephant in the bedroom

So Sunday's sermon was entitled "Elephant in the Bedroom" (and, surprisingly, it wasn't referring to the drying piles of cat vomit - one nicely aimed in the middle of Rob's flip flop by the side of the bed - that we keep stepping over, just silently waiting for the other person to deem them dry enough to remove and clean... please refer to this lovely post for an explanation here if you are about to hurl and need somewhere to go). Yes, our pastor talked about sex (gasp!), and it was a crash-course on what most husbands and wives need to work on outside the bedroom to...er...get some inside the bedroom.

So for the remainder of Sunday, I was randomly enveloped in several Rob-hugs around the house, complete with murmured "This is me treasuring you" declarations. Nerd. But I still laughed and hugged him back.

And then I left for a few hours later on that night. Rob, taking another of our pastor's kernels of advice to heart (which basically boiled down to "You'd better serve your wife and help out around the house otherwise you won't see much action in the bed" - yeah, it was an awesome sermon), decided to (sort of?) deliver the clean laundry I had washed..."deliver" as in "vaguely sort it according to person and deliver it unfolded to the floor of the room of each said person." But, hey, it was off the couch by the time I returned, so I was grateful. (And here I should interject a side note that Rob really does help out around the house a LOT - dishes, cooking, sock-pairing, etc. It just usually doesn't include laundry delivering, so I was touched by his gesture.)

And then I went to the washing machine this morning to add the last handful of socks and underwear to the load I had been building up in the washer. See, this half-built load had started on Saturday when I got the great idea of putting this cloth diaperish-underwear-thing on Silas during his nap to see if it would stop him from peeing. And it did. He only pooped in it. A lot. Fail. So after some toilet underwear-rinsing, extensive hand-washing, and a thorough nail-clipping (never trust longer fingernails on a mom with a child under three, by the way), I threw the still-moderately-poopy diaper into the washing machine to be bleached into the next world as soon as I had gathered enough socks and underwear to make a small load.

Except it wasn't there this morning.

Fearing the worst, I went to the dryer and found a handful of small dried poop chunks. In my dryer. Poop chunks.

THEN I went to the delivered clothes pile in Silas' room (which may or may not have been still lying there...) and found a very dry, slightly poop-chunked diaper. A diaper that somehow was managing to physically contaminate about six clean shirts and two pairs of shorts (and my entire dryer) in all of its unwashed glory.

And remembering Sunday's advice of receiving household help with gratefulness and not "you're totally doing it wrong, you loser" criticism (I do remember shrinking in my seat and avoiding all eye contact at this point in the sermon), I managed to choke out to Rob, "Next time smell the laundry before you decide to dry it." And that was it. No snide comments. No flying off the handle. I was so proud of myself.

Aaaaaaaaand then I couldn't help myself and wrote a blog entry about it.

If you're not scared of a little "Texas man humor" and want to hear the sermon for yourself, you can watch or listen to Bob Roberts give it here.