I have to put a disclaimer here: The following complaint/story is completely first world, so–all my dear, dear friends in developing countries–please bear with me.

It’s also a bit gross, so just bear with that, too.

This summer a friend gave me a Roomba, a robot vacuum that moves around the house on its own and sucks up all the hair/dust/dirt/hair/hair (did I say hair more than once? Sorry, I have four girls in the house.)

So, I LOVE Roomba. I talk to Roomba while it cleans–not a lot, just things like “Roomba, you’re so wonderful. Good job! Keep it up!” My kids complain that I appreciate Roomba more than I appreciate them. My answer to that? “Well, you make messes. Roomba cleans them up. Hmm.”

But Tuesday morning, when I was taking PJ and his little friend Emma to their first-grade orientation (AAH! first grade! how did he get so old?), the dog evidently threw up in the house (see, there’s another first world issue; in what developing culture would a dog be in the house?). Amazingly, she (the dog) actually picked a spot on the hardwood rather than on a carpet, so all should have been well.

Actually, all should have been well when my older kids found the puke because–seems logical to me–they should have cleaned it up.

They didn’t clean it up. They left that for me.

In their defense (those were their words), they did move the curtains out of the way of the puke.

But then they left it.

And when Roomba began its daily sweep at 10 a.m., they never thought about the fact that Roomba was going to run directly over the puke.

Which it did.

I really do “love” my Roomba–even when I have to wipe up smeared puke and clean out all its puke-smeared brushes.

And, kids, I love–truly love–you all, too!