The Night He Redeemed Himself

In the mail today was a notice regarding Clint's cell phone. Those of you who have tried to reach him lately are aware that he hasn't paid his bill so they suspended his service.

Unfortunately his phone is in my name.
And they are giving his account over to a third party collection agency.

Which means I'm paying that bill.
And he owes me.

I was thinking to myself, "Maybe it's time he moved out. Learned the value of money. Was forced to be responsible. Appreciated just how very awesome it is living here..."

But the message at church on Sunday was along the lines of "When things are crappy, don't get married. Stay the way you are." 1 Cor 7:26 - "Because of the present crisis, I think it is best to remain just as you are. If you have a wife, do not end the marriage. If you do not have a wife, do not get married."

And I took this to mean that God was telling me, "Hey Jane, this situation your family is in? Is a crisis of sorts. Don't go changing the status quo. Keep things the way they are for now. Don't go all crazy making rash decisions regarding your little family. It is best to remain as you are."

So, OK. No one is moving out. I'm not getting married. My kids are not getting married. I will deal with phone bills and income tax forms.

"Feel my head," Max said at midnight. "Does it feel hot? I don't feel good."
I was blogging about my very good, happy clappy, fine and dandy day (see below) so I suggested he go to bed.

At around 1:00, just as I was finishing up a game of Scramble on Facebook, I heard the shower running in the boys' bathroom and knew that Clint was getting ready for bed. "Hmm. A record around here. We'll all be in bed by 1:30 tonight," I thought.

Then, unexpectedly, there was the sound of someone flat out running upstairs and I thought, "He wasn't in the shower? His phone (he went and got a new contract with a different service provider and signed another 3 year contract) was ringing and he ran to answer it? He forgot to get a towel, so he sprinted to the hall closet? He had an urge to run laps?"

I went back to Facebook and looked at the photos that Meghan posted when all of a sudden there was Max in his boxers, shivering beside me.

"Uh. I threw up. Clint was in our bathroom, so I tried to make it to yours but ... there's some puke on your floor."

He, himself was covered it in. It looked like blood. Or shit. Apparently it was hot chocolate. Or what used to be hot chocolate.

And my room?

It looked like a blood bath. Like someone had been hacked to death, violently - struggling every inch of the way. All that was missing was a body.

I can't even describe the vileness of the smell. Well I could, but you'd probaby vomit on your keyboards as you read my words.

"Max. You couldn't have just used the laundry basket right here in the hallway? What about your garbage can? Or even Just Stood Still and not whipped your head around while moving in a forward motion?"

He is still in his boxers, shivering and pale, standing in the upstairs hallway while I view the carnage in my bedroom. Clint gets out of the shower, opens the door to see what all the noise is about.

"Who takes a shower at 1:20 am?" Max asks. "If you hadn't been in the bathroom, none of this would have happened."

"What?"

"Max missed the toilet. And covered my entire room in vomit," I said.

He steps out of the bathroom and is assaulted my the smell.

"Ewww." He takes one look at my room, then goes to his. He puts on his Homer Simpson lounge pants (long boxers? pajama bottoms?) and a gas mask then grabs his camera and photographs the entire mess.

I have never been prouder.

Do you know what I would have done even just 3 years ago? I would have called my dad. And you know what? He would have come and cleaned up that mess. As I stood there, breathing through my mouth, opening windows and turning on fans, I missed my dad. He loved me like no other man on this earth, and a room covered in puke? Would have not been an issue for him.

They just don't make guys like him anymore.

Holy cow, I miss being loved like that.
And I am aching for people who have never felt that kind of love from a parent.

Clint helped me move some furniture from my room out into the hallway so that I could roll up the 5'x 8' piece of carpet beside my bed. I'm not even going to bother trying to clean it. I took it down the garage. It will go to the curb on Thursday.

And when I get back up to my room what do I see?
Clint. On his hands and knees, cleaning up Max's mess. Sopping up puke with paper towels, then mopping the floor, washing the walls, taking down the curtains ...

He stayed by my side, cleaning every inch of the room (Max managed to spray it under my bed, in addition to splattering three walls, the window, blinds, curtains, my basket of books, my bed and everything on it. There was not one piece of furniture that was missed. The pictures on my walls, the basket of clean laundry... Well just look at this 'before' picture:

He covered the floor in front of the bathroom door, plus sprayed the door, the wall with the picture, including the picture, that carpet, the bed, under the bed, the window on the far side of the bed ...)

Clint? Is my hero.

He photographed it, then cleaned it.

He can live here as long as he wants.