The Gloved One

Mike spilled his oatmeal all over the floor, it's the first thing I see when I walk into the house. It's scattered all around like fertilizer in the living room, there are spots around it where something was dragged through it. I walk into the kitchen and my mother in law is holding the duster with a pile of cereal, obviously the floor only held the remains. She puts the top half back in the box, my eyes widen in disgust, but arguing will only result in an hour long discussion of cleanliness and in the end I give up so, I let her do her thing. I buy his cereal four boxes at a time, this will go into the trash bin as soon as she leaves.
I look down to her feet and notice there is a glove pulled over her foot like a sock, I ponder how I should ask the question. I think and think, and watch her walk around like Frankenstein with the lazy leg, she sees me staring and stops. "What's that?"
"I had to put lotion on, the glove holds the lotion on foot, smart thing you had the box of gloves." She says as if this were my ingenious thought. She sits on the sofa and pulls the glove off, pulling another one out of her moo-moo pajamas. The bottom of her sole looks burned, or scraped off, she said she was trying to fix her dry cracked skin and this happened. Now I know she has friends at the flea market, and I also know their kooky items for sale, the cheapo version of the as seen on tv stuff, she brought home all kinds of stuff in the past, kitchen utensils, plastic bunnies and fish to display on her mantel, useless shit. With the invention of the ped-egg (which I handily have in the bathroom) what in little Korea did she use what to file her feet. She brings out a rock, a big oblong, gray rock, she must not have realized she passed the skin, she puts more cream on the sole of her foot, lathering it like she does with the butter and the rice, the glove is pulled back on and she walks around the house, with this plastic wrapping and 5 flappy fingers flail about with her, I stare as she goes about her business as if this were normal.
As we have this conversation, my little mike d has brought all of the shampoo bottles out of the bathroom into the bed, he is covered by the comforter and underneath has all of his collection, plus a Yo Gabba Gabba book that he won't put down.
I walk in and he is speaking Chubacca style to himself, no harm yet.
I take out the trash and marvel at the abandonment of our front yard, only a matter of time before the city comes to give us a love letter of how we need to quit squatting and pretend we actually live here, it seems that we walk in and avoid anything that has to do with the outdoors, well it's either pouring sheets of rain or a million degrees.
I put the broken car seat and the broken computer chair by the trash bin, wipe my hands on my pants and go back inside.
I have now walked into what I can only describe as a whore house, the aroma of paris twilight, I know the smell well, on my bed, jumping in circles is my little handsome boy, slathered from his feet to his head with the Paris Twilight massage oil that I had hidden in the sock drawer, the shampoo bottles all unopened lined on the floor, and the hoodlum that I gave birth to relishing in his newest adventure.
Bouncing like a porn star ready to shoot his first film. I grab him and he twists, his arms oily, the bed doused, thank god I bought the mattress pad sheet for underneath the covers, that was for Juno's accidents, both the emergency cover pad and the regular cover smelling of sex, bringing back fond memories of drunken wild nights, the smile only lasts a second and he is off on the other side of the bed, avoiding my grasp and giggling to himself, how can you hold a smile, really?
I let him jump around as the damage has been done, there is wet clothes in the dryer and the washer is full, I must have forgotten to dry the load. So we are off to play in the water with all the bottles we can find until I can put the covers to wash, otherwise I will be sleeping on the couch again.