Act 3, Scene 4: “How to Choose the Perfect Furniture for Your Child-friendly Suburban Home”

In a word, plastics.

To wit: TRL lies in bed, the sing-song chipper and Disney squirrel voices of C&E cascading from their room; they are deep into a conversation both passionate and light-hearted. S is gone for the day, having left at 7 am for a work conference in Boston. TRL finally rises, goes downstairs to get the boys milk, opens the door and greets the day with a hearty “Morning fellas.” Squeaks and bouncing ensues.

TRL takes a sniff: all seems fresh. The previous morning it wasn’t: C had a stomach bug. TRL, responding to C’s cries, had walked into a major biohazard: exploding diarrhea, stink like a frat bathroom in a vinegar factory. But today, all seems well. He dresses C&E as they drink their milk, C in particular guzzling down the cold white stuff. They go downstairs and begin their breakfast: more milk, some bread, some yogurt.

And then C makes a gurgling sound, and suddenly it’s the Fountains of Wayne out his mouth, a Bellagio water show thick and white. TRL grabs C and holds him, bringing him over the sink. When C is finished and TRL has cleaned his face and mouth and comforted him, he turns to survey the damage. E sits staring at the scene. Little white chunks and liquid are spread over the table and chair and floor. And sink and counter. And on C’s shirt and pants and socks. And TRL’s pants. It’s a massacre, the White Album version. TRL stripes C and himself and throws everything in the wash. He takes C&E upstairs, puts a fresh set of clothes on C and they head downstairs.

“Stay on the carpet, please,” TRL instructs as he begins the cleanup. But in a trip to the sink, TRL turns around: E has walked to the table, going through the vomit, which now trails him in little footprints on the floor. TRL sighs and picks up E, takes off his pants and socks, and once again they all head upstairs to change.

Finally, with C&E all clean, and with the sink and table and floor cleaned up, TRL turns his attention to the chair. A black plastic one with little square holes in the seat. TRL and S had bought it for their apartment in NYC, and it had followed them out to San Francisco and now outside Boston. After scrubbing and poking in the holes, white vomit still clung. So TRL did the only logical thing: he put the entire chair in the bathtub and gave it a good hot shower. Something which TRL had not found the time to do for two days. Under the strong stream of water, the chair comes clean. If it had been wood or had a cloth cushion, the chair would have taken half-an-hour to clean. But because of the smooth attractive lines and overall durability of plastics, it is a 30-second affair. Finally, with the chair in the shower drying, the boys dry and good-smelling, the kitchen once again clean, it was time to start all over again.

“Breakfast time,” TRL announces to the boys. “Only bread and water for you, C.”