It's Not What it Looks Like

My four year old, Cameron, made an obscene gesture this morning. And I found it so amusing that I made him hold that position while I took a picture with my phone.


Now before y'all start gasping and clutching your pearls and calling the nearest Child Protective Services agency to report my questionable parenting, let me make it clear that he didn't really flip me off. Well, at least not in the context normally reserved for the middle finger (like traffic, or when your husband acts like your solo trip to the grocery store was a fun-filled vacation). It wasn't like a big, "Eff you Mommy, my oatmeal was lumpy this morning."  He was actually just showing me where he'd pulled a hangnail off and made his finger bleed. See?


When I took the picture he was all, "It's not funny, Mommy!" (... But it totally was.) Still, I stopped laughing long enough to gush my motherly sympathy for his poor nearly-severed finger and give it a few kisses.

And oh yeah - your eyes don't deceive you. He is actually eating that Kleenex. He eats paper products, remember?

Hey, I can't be such a fantastic mother all the time.

The Aim Game

Cleaning a toilet used exclusively by three little boys is a torturous task, somewhere between a Brazilian wax (or what I imagine a Brazilian wax would feel like since you couldn't pay me to get one because I know what it feels like to do my armpits and that's bad enough) and a tooth extraction ... sans sedative.

They might be little now, but I'm keenly aware that soon enough, my dudes will be ... well, dudes. Big manly men. And an admirable - no, essential - quality in men is the ability to use a toilet without it looking like the bathroom of a seedy gas station when they leave. That means executing proper aim, wiping up any errant droplets, putting the seat down, and flushing.

It's my mission to shape my boys into the kind of men their wives will appreciate, so the toilet thing? That's big. Unfortunately, I can't post up in the bathroom every time one of them uses it (I'd be in there all day, y'all) and insist they follow the proper potty protocol. And although it seems simple, even for little guys - aimwipeseatflush - it's apparently a pretty hard process to remember every single time. Because as much as I'd like to think they're following the toilet rules, the crust around the base and dried drips down the sides and the occasional un-flushed turd (surprise!) tells me otherwise.

I spend too much of my life hunched in front of the boys' bowl, scouring its porcelain surface with whatever industrial-strength disinfectant I can get my hands on, wondering why I haven't yet invested in a HazMat suit.


Buy this stylish suit here for the low, low price of only $758.99!

So what do I do when I'm frustrated with something? I yell cry lock myself in the closet and stuff my face with cupcakes write a poem about it, of course!


Despite possession of a part
That you can aim, just like a dart,
Your crusty toilet tells the tale
Of an epic aiming fail.

'Cause your ability to aim
Is nothing short of really lame -
Unless your aim's to make Mom frown,
In which case, dude, you've got it down.

We girls don't have the luxury
Of seeing where we put our pee
Yet I know that if you were a daughter,
You'd always hit the toilet water.

You're male, and nature made it easy
For you to point the thing and pee, see?
So use that gift, and keep things neat;
Don't spray the rim, the floor, the seat.

It's not too much to ask of you
That you control your pee and poo
So next time your toilet goes crusty and unflushed,
I'm making you clean it yourself ...
... with your toothbrush.


Bra-la-la


"Hey, nice rack, Rita," said nobody ever.

... Unless they were talking about, like, the spice rack my husband bought me when we lived in Germany. (Which come to think of it is pretty nice.)

The only "nice rack" currently adding spice to my life.

It's true. I've never had a decent set of boobs. Even pre-kids, they weren't anything to rave about. They've never been big enough to really have cleavage, and even if they were bigger, they're spaced so far apart that I probably wouldn't have had cleavage anyway. And now that I've birthed and nursed four children? Fuhgeddaboutit. They've been inflated and deflated and stretched (remember this post?) so much that they're now mere shadows of their former not-so-glorious selves. Pitiful. Like basset hound ears, only with nipples.

... And less fur, obviously. (I may have a beard, but thankfully that's the worst of my body-hair problems.)

Which is why I've never really had a nice bra. I think the most I've ever paid for a bra is, like, $25 - and I wore it until it was, like, gray and the underwire was bent and kept sticking the crap out of me and a couple of the hooks didn't even hook any more. I had to get my money's worth, y'all.

My current bra wardrobe consists of a seven-dollar plain white cotton number from Walmart and two hand-me-downs that my sister bought at a drugstore or someplace similarly weird like a decade ago (I'm not exaggerating). It's because this one time I was changing at her house and she saw my raggedy bra and was shocked at its ridiculousness and raided her extensive lingerie drawer (because unlike me, she was blessed with the type of boobs women pay for. Thanks genetics) and practically threw them at me. Her old bras, not her boobs.

Even when I was childless and considerably firmer and had disposable income, I never felt the "girls" were worthy of actual lingerie - one of those sexy, lacy push-up numbers from Victoria's Secret or wherever. I should have known better, but hindsight is 20/20. Kind of like when I found, like, one dimple of cellulite when I was twenty and decided I was fat. *sigh* And now, it's too late. It feels almost like a joke to even think about rolling them up and putting my decidedly un-sexy breasts into a sexy bra.

So I'll continue to stuff them into this raggedy cotton holster until it completely wears out and I have no choice but to purchase ... another cheap bra. I know I should invest, but there's just so much other stuff that I could spend my money on: like my kids. Which is where my money typically goes anyway.

Or, you know, some chocolate.


Jittery and Jiggly

When your definition of "personal success" includes removing a booger from your newborn's nose without waking him, you know it's time to do something different.

For me, that's getting back to teaching Zumba. One year ago next month, I looked like this:


A proud (fit, tanned) newly-licensed Zumba instructor. 

And then I looked like this:


Less tan, less fit, six months pregnant, but still proud. 

And then my metabolism was all, hahahahaha screw you! and took an unauthorized vacation and I gained like forty extra pounds despite all the Zumba. And then my baby was all,hahahahaha screw you! and flipped around at the last minute so that he required to be extracted by C-section and I had to take a whole six weeks before I could do anything more strenuous than walking.

So yeah. It's been a while. One might say I'm totally a little out of the groove.

And yet? I've committed myself to return to teaching Zumba the first week of August. It's only three times a week at first, as opposed to the six classes I was teaching before, but still ... I'm scared, y'all. I've been going to some classes here and there for about a week now, just to prepare myself before I jump back into the game, and have encountered jiggle, unfortunate cameltoe, ill-fitting workout clothing, and total awkwardness ...

... all from myself. Boooooo.

I feel like I no longer fit the profile of Zumba instructor, but instead, look more like this:


Not me, but a close approximation.

I don't know how I'm going to do it! I can barely shuffle through thirty minutes of practice here at home, and at the gym, I feel like a total newbie. Like I've never taught a class. Yet in one short week - next Thursday OMG I think I just peed - I'll be back in front of a roomful of people who are watching me shake my (wobbly) thang.


*gulp* ....

PS - I had to interrupt the writing of this post to investigate A TURD STUCK TO THE WALL. I couldn't make this stuff up, you guys.


A Facebook Only a Mother Could Love

I always post stuff about my kids on my personal Facebook page. Just snippets of my daily life with these crazy dudes - things seen or overheard. I find these little anecdotes amusing, but I'm their mom. You know? Like, of course I'm going to think they're funny. That's one of those things that's hard to gauge. Like how you know beyond the shadow of a doubt that your kids are adorable, and then you see someone who also knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that their kids are adorable when really they look kind of weird*, and then it makes you wonder if your kids really are cute or if the phrase "a face only a mother could love" applies too directly for your comfort.

*Don't hate, you know it's true.

Anyway, for your reading pleasure (or your snarky inner "OMG, she thinks this is funny?"), I present to you a handful of the Facebook snippets that people tell me are hilarious. Maybe they're just being nice? You be the judge.

Curtis: "Coby, do you realize you'll be three years old soon?"
Coby: "And then I'll be able to DRIVE?!?"


Nothing good ever came of a four-year-old insisting, from inside the bathroom, that he's "just getting some air."


According to Cameron, coconut ice cream "kind of tastes like love."


Colin has been joking with me for weeks about how he gets up in the middle of the night and plays the Wii. At least I thought he was joking, until I got up at one o'clock this morning and there he was, naked, playing Super Mario Bros.


So my four-year-old tells me that the omelets I made for breakfast taste "like squid in a laundry basket" .....


Cameron just told Colin, "I'm going to spank your butt with an expert hand."


Nothing elicits a smile from our seven-week-old like the ceiling fan. He's going to be weird like the rest of them.


Sometimes, photos say more than a status ever could:


Cameron claims putting his head in his pants while he poops helps eliminate the odor.


Cameron eating his dinner ... sort of. Yes, he still eats paper.

Colin's super-creative take on his "favorite invention" school assignment.


Some things don't make it to Facebook. Like when Colin announced that he was going to grow a mustache "all the way to his back." Or when Cameron menacingly threatened Colin with, "I'm going to rip your underwear off and write 'Big Bird' on it!"

I've been told more than once by Facebook friends that I should have a reality show to chronicle my life with four boys. But right now, for example, two of those four children are naked, my hallway is full of pillows, I just noticed a mysterious smear of poo streaked across the toilet lid, and I'm wearing a shirt with ZERO elasticity so the neckline hits me somewhere mid-boob. So yeah.

I think my reality is better left to blogs and Facebook snippets.

Do These Pants Make Me Look Gay?


Ever tried explaining homosexuality to a four-year-old who doesn't particularly listen?

Yeah. It's fun.

Colin and Cameron are on a serious Super Mario Bros. kick ever since we gave Colin the Wii game for his birthday last month. And because it's Colin's custom to look up eeeeeeverythiing on YouTube, they've been watching a lot of video tutorials about how to beat the levels and such.

Normally these tutorials are wordless, or just boring and explain-y, showing someone playing endless levels of Mario Bros. But sometimes you'll hear the players talking to each other. And apparently I didn't notice the one where someone in the background said "Gay Luigi."

But Cameron did! Yaaaay!

So when I heard him calling his brother "Gay Luigi" the other day, I sat him down.

"Cameron?" I said gently. "Do you know what 'gay' means?"

He shook his head, so I explained it to him in the easiest-to-understand terms possible. And then reiterated that being gay is not a bad or abnormal thing, that we all have our preferences, and that it's just a matter of what people like.

Fast-forward to a couple days later, when I heard him calling Colin gay again.

"Cameron," I admonished. "Do you remember what I told you 'gay' means?"

He nodded.

"Okay. Well. Calling someone gay is like calling someone fat. There's nothing wrong with being fat, but you don't call someone that. Same with gay. All right?"

"Yes, Mommy," Cameron said, rather impatiently.

Concerned that my wise teachings of tolerance and manners hadn't quite set in, I decided to quiz him. "And what does 'gay' mean, again?"

He paused for a second. Then: "It means fat!" he said brightly.

*sigh*

I'll have to try explaining it again when he learns to listen a little better.

... If that ever happens.




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Lovely Dove-ly


If your baby is seven weeks old, that still counts as "postpartum," right? Because I'm still feeling postpartum-y (that is totally a word). You know: perpetually tired. Slightly crusty with spit-up. Desperate for the day I fit into my jeans again so I can take off these stretchy "workout" pants that I'm not working out in nearly as often as it would appear.

But despite those facts, I am slowly, steadily working toward getting back to my pre-pregnancy mediocrity smokin' hotness. Gotta do this in baby steps, y'all. And one of the ways I'm doing that is to take a little more "me time" ... pampering myself a bit more than usual. Making myself feel pretty and girly again. Because mothering four boys can leach the femininity right outta you, if you let it.

So when I got the opportunity to review Dove® Visible Care Softening Crème Body Wash, I was on it like white on rice. Like coupon-fanatics at a two-for-one sale. Like flies on stink. Any chance to wash that alligator scaliness right out of my poor neglected mom-skin is a chance I'm going to take. (I'm not gonna lie - this is a paid BlogHer review - but the opinion of the body wash is mine all mine!)


Anyhow, the first thing I noticed was the lovely scent. Officially, the product is described as having "a white floral gourmand fragrance that includes an elegant combination of magnolia and pink jasmine." Whatever it is, it made me feel like I should be sitting in a sunny Southern flower garden drinking a mint julep. I wanted to walk around sniffing my arms all day but since that would be just a step away from smelling my armpits, and therefore socially unacceptable (or just downright weird), I refrained.


I always need to slather on some kind of heavy-duty lotion after showering, but to my surprise and delight, I don't have to after using the Dove® Visible Care Softening Crème Body Wash. Yet I don't feel like a greased pig, coated with residue, either - my skin just feels clean and moisturized. (This body wash has the highest concentration of NutriumMoisture™ across the Dove® product line.) And it's soft!My four-year-old kept stroking my arm during story time, which is the closest thing to a compliment on my skin that he's probably going to give me.


Visibly more beautiful skin from a body wash? You betcha. Harried postpartum-y mom who feels just a little bit closer to gorgeous? CHECK. 



Bottom line is, I'm glad to have been introduced to this stuff, and that's the honest-to-goodness, review-or-not truth. And you should introduce your scaly self to it, too. In fact, you can get a dollar off coupon here from the peeps at Dove®. It comes in three varieties - Softening (the one I tried), Toning, and Renewing. All promise to improve the look and feel of your skin in just one week (as long as you, like, bathe at least semi-regularly).

AND!!!


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Bathroom Bluffing

One phrase: that's all it takes. Four magic words. If you've ever potty-trained a child, you know that no matter what you're doing - or where you are - or how inconvenient it is - this one phrase makes you drop everything and run for the nearest toilet.

The phrase?

I need to poop.

When you're potty-training your kid, there are no more powerful words. If we're, say, shopping at the grocery store and Coby says, "I need to go pee!" I always say, "You can hold it for a few more minutes." Because chances are, he really just wants to go check out the inside of the restroom which is what he wants to do at like every establishment we ever visit, EVER. I can tell when he genuinely needs to go and when he's just wanting a change of scenery.

But with poop? There's no guarantee. If it were the middle of winter, and Coby was decked out in ten layers of clothing and a snowsuit and standing in the midst of a snowdrift, and he said, "I need to poop," I'd be hauling him inside peeling off clothes like my life depended on it. (After maybe like groaning and rolling my eyes, of course.) If we were at a carnival and the only bathrooms were those Porta-Potties that reek from a mile away and look like a science experiment, and Coby said, "I need to poop," I'd take him and my hand sanitizer and hold my breath for a freakishly long time. If Johnny Depp himself were standing in front of us - and y'all know how I love me some Johnny Depp - and Coby said, "I need to poop," I'd... I'd ........

.... I'd probably just let him poop in his pants.

I mean, you know, Johnny Depp.


But that's the exception. Under any other circumstance, even if I'm almost positive he's bluffing, I take Coby to the bathroom every time he utters the dreaded phrase. Because if there's anything more inconvenient than that, it's cleaning up a poopy mess. Can I get an "amen?"

The only thing is, it seems like they always learn to use that phrase to their advantage. Yesterday, at nap time, I had Coby all settled into his bed with a book to look at. I gave him a kiss and turned around to leave the room. And then?

"Mommy, I need to poop."

You know how it is. You hear it, you're 99% sure it isn't true, but ... there's that nagging 1%. That part of your brain that's permanently scarred from memories of scrubbing turd-smeared surfaces. That part screams, "Please don't put me through another disaster like that! For God's sake, take him to the bathroom!"

And because lately I've been dealing with Coby pooping everywhere but the toilet (see here and here, not to mention a handful of other incidents I haven't even blogged about), I let him go. Like three times. Even though, just as I suspected, he only wanted to get out of bed. And today? This very blog post has been interrupted no fewer than four times by the declaration of "I need to poop." Which, you guessed it, never happened. But I swear, as soon as I decide to ignore his request to go to the bathroom, something terrible will happen. That's just my luck. Like this mess on my bathroom floor, from two days ago, which he tried to clean up himself with one of my good towels:

Because it somehow seems less graphic in black and white.

I know that the majority of the time, he really doesn't need to go. And during those moments, most of me wants to kick myself for being manipulated by a toddler.




PS - Don't forget there's a giveaway up! Click on the Giveaways and Reviews tab (or just click here) and enter to win a SWEET voucher from Simply Swim!

No Peace to Post (and a Giveaway!)

I sat down to write a blog post and then I heard my two-year-old say, in a voice filled with awe, "That's a lot of fish food." And he was right, seeing as he'd dumped the entire container into the fishbowl with Fuego, our new betta fish (who replaced Bluey the miraculous zombie fish when he finally met his demise). So I had to stop writing before I ever got started.

Now I'm back at the computer, obviously, but with a few things working against me. It's going to be one of those days when I can't leave my children unattended for long enough to hammer out a decent post. Also: the smell of pee is emanating from my kitchen trash because my husband tends to throw diapers there instead of in the garage trash, which is where they're supposed to go. Barf. And since I'm sitting by the kitchen trash, well, you know.

I'ma make this quick.

First off: I've got a new giveaway up! Just click on the "Giveaways and Reviews" tab up top and you're on your way to winning a £50 voucher from Simply Swim! Woohoooo!!!


Secondly, I forgot to tell y'all this. A few weeks ago I get a call from a random 800 number that I didn't answer because hello, 800 numbers only mean telemarketers or bill collectors. So when they left a voicemail, I was surprised to hear, "Hi, this message is for Colin Templeton. Mr. Templeton, you had requested information online about a bachelor's degree in game design from Full Sail University, and I was just calling to set you up with an admissions counselor."

Colin Templeton is my seven year old.

My seven year old who is going through a phase where he is obsessed with video games and how they are made. Apparently he decided to request information about a bachelor's degree. He probably doesn't even know what that is, exactly, but hey, "game design."

And third, our little Corbin Daniel - or as I call him, Lieutenant Dan (a la Forrest Gump) - started smiling yesterday.

Couldn't you just eat little smiling babies up?!? Squeeeee!!

As confirmation that I really, reeeeeally need to get off this computer, Coby just came into the room looking like this:


Now that he's finished terrorizing the fish, he's moved on (inexplicably) to an underwear mask and a pair of scissors. They're the child-safe kind, of course, but the bigger question is: is anything safe from the child?

Don't forget to enter the giveaway!!

Roses are Red, Messes are Messy

My seven-year-old is going through a very irritating phase.*

*Actually he happens to be going through lots of very irritating phases* but this is the one I'm blogging about today.


*Good Lord I hope they're just phases.


Anyway.


Colin is going through a "but it's not my mess!" phase lately. Case in point: this morning after breakfast, Cameron was the first to put his cereal bowl in the dishwasher, but he left his spoon on the table. So when Colin went to put his bowl in the dishwasher, I said, "Hey Colin. Will you please put that other spoon in there when you go?"

He acted like I'd said, "Hey Colin. I'm going to let your little brothers trash the joint and then make you clean it up all by yourself. Bwahahahaha!"

"But it's not my spoon!" he whined in protest.

Seriously? It's a spoon. A spoon. And he was going to the dishwasher anyway. Much like that fruit snack package on the floor, that he happened to be walking past, that I asked him to pick up. Or the Wii remote that I asked him to put back in its basket, and he initially refused because this is the player two remote and I was player onnnnne! Not exactly unreasonable requests, right? Yet it's always the same these days: "But it's not mine!" And I end up snapping at him because it's ridiculous, and he ends up picking up whatever it is and then stomping around with an attitude. Ugh.

The other day I'd had enough and went off. "Do you realize how many messes I clean up that aren't mine?" I snarked. "I spend my whole day cleaning up messes that aren't mine. Practically my whole life right now is devoted to cleaning up messes that I didn't make!"

That seemed to get through to him a little bit at the time. But obviously it didn't have much of an effect on him because, you know, the spoon.

*sigh*

Anyway, since I can't figure out a good way to remedy the situation except to just hang on and hope he grows out of it, I've written a little poem. Because as y'all know if you've been around for a while, I like writing little poems. (View my other poetic masterpieces about cosleeping, Thanksgiving, vacuums, birth control, blogging, and my face by clicking on these respective links. You're welcome.)

Plus a bonus haiku that I didn't write, but totally wish I would've.


So here goes.

It's not my mess; I didn't do it.
So whoever made it had better tend to it.
You there, little infant, you've soiled yourself -
The diapers and wipes are up on the shelf.
Hey weak-stomached cat who barfed up your food -
I sure hope you're good with a paper towel, dude.
And yo, toddler, who "missed" and crapped on the floor -
Use the germ-killing wipes, they're right there in that drawer.
By the way, family? From now on I propose
That you all should wash dry fold and hang your own clothes.
I'm not doing your dishes or wiping your tracks,
Or sweeping the crumbs left behind by your snacks.
Not cleaning the windows smudged up by your fingers
Or ridding your bathroom of the odor that lingers.
Or scrubbing your bathtub, or the crayon on your door,
Or mopping the juice that you spilled on the floor.
It isn't my mess, so why should I do it?
It's not cleaning itself - I suggest you get to it.



Minivanity


Dear Teenage Girl Who Scoffed Disdainfully at my Minivan:

Thanks for the scathingly judgmental look you cast at my ride while we were at a stoplight. "Like, I'll never drive a minivan," I'm sure you said, in your snottiest tone, to your friend in the driver's seat of your tiny little Mazda or whatever. And she was probably all, "I know, right?! Sooo lame." (Or, you know, whatever you kids say these days.)

Look. I get it. You're cute, and all your body parts are still where they're supposed to be without the assistance of underwire and copious amounts of Spandex. You know everything. The world is your oyster, and everybody over twenty-five is terminally uncool and just straight-up unworthy of occupying space in it. You drive a small, cute car because you have nothing to carry in it besides your backpack and giant purse and sometimes a drunk friend or two in the backseat because ohmygawd, you know what would be ah-maaaazing right now? TACO BELL. 

But what you forget, my dear, is that I didn't burst forth from the womb as a harried, minivan-driving mother of four. A mere *coughcough* years ago, I too was cute. Smug. Taut and un-cellulitey. Unhindered by children and driving a sporty little car devoid of boogers, baby wipes and stray Happy Meal toys. In short, I was ... you. Which means a decade or so from now, you will probably be me. 

By then you will have realized that your metabolism is not equipped to handle all that Taco Bell, and that your parents are not in fact "soooo stupid," and that, when you're carrying an infant seat and a diaper bag and four sacks of groceries and trying to keep a grip on an escape-artist toddler, a door that opens with one touch - i.e., a minivan - will be your best friend.

I'll be honest: it stings a little, getting an OMG you're such a loser look from a cooler-than-thou teenager. It's a reminder that I now spend my Friday nights at Walmart, shopping for gifts for the umpteen birthday parties I'll be toting the kids to over the weekend. Or drinking a glass of wine that I didn't even get carded to buy (boohoo!) and falling asleep on the couch at 9:30.

But someday ... some day ... karma will come around to haunt you. She can be cruel.

And watch out, because I'm pretty sure she drives a minivan.



Barbec-eww!


Sometimes, when Venus is aligned with Jupiter and the moon is waxing crescent and it's payday or thereabouts and my leg hair is at the proper rate of growth and I position my teeth just so, Curtis and I get the chance to socialize together with other adults.

But because we now have four children (and all boys, to boot!), one of whom is a newborn, it costs approximately $1,856 per hour to hire a babysitter. So over the weekend, we had a few friends over to our house - where we could subject other people to the boys' rambunctiousness no sitter was necessary.

Although I realize now in retrospect it may have been smart to hire one anyway. Because while I was busy cooking and serving and hostessing and being my witty and fabulous self, Coby was wandering around largely unattended. And when an almost-three-year-old wanders around largely unattended, bad things happen.

You know how it is. You get a group of adults together, talking and laughing, and everybody assumes somebody else is watching the kids - when in reality the kids are, like, practicing tightrope walking on the power lines outside. As long as they're out of everyone's hair, nobody checks.

Anyway, just as I was setting out the burger toppings, Coby came into the kitchen and announced, "I peed in the bathroom!"

No one but me found this suspicious. So what, he peed in the bathroom ... that's where you're supposed to pee, right? The thing is, though, when Coby pees, he tells me that he peed in the big boy potty. Not just "in the bathroom." So this prompted me to say, "Where?"

"On the floor," he answered nonchalantly, as if urinating on the floor were a perfectly viable option.

I abandoned the burger preparations to check the bathroom, and sure enough, there was a puddle right in front of the toilet. With a couple of random squares of sodden toilet paper thrown on top for good measure, Coby's obvious (if failed) attempt to clean up the mess.

So I took care of that.

Fast-forward to an hour or so later. We had just finished eating (thank the Lord). The kids had picked at their food and then retreated to the bedroom to play ... or so I thought.

Then here came Coby.

He stood in the middle of the kitchen, hands on hips, and said, "Where's my dad?"

"He's outside," I said. "On the deck."

So Coby went to the door to look out. And when he turned his back to me, I saw that the backs of his legs were crusted with brown.

"Uh, Coby?" I asked hesitantly. "What's all over your legs?" Pleasedon'tsaypoopPleasedon'tsaypoopPleasedon'tsaypoop

"... Poop," he answered in the same nonchalant tone he'd used earlier.

WTF.

He had pooped in his bedroom (which thankfully is the one bedroom in the house with easy-to-clean laminate flooring). But then he had tried to clean it up using toilet paper from the bathroom, which is across the hall. So he had tracked a poo-path from the bedroom to the bathroom. Not to mention, he was solid turd from practically the waist down, where he had a.) failed to wipe and then b.) pulled his shorts up, resulting in a heinous smear.

All while we had company. Lovely.

It was beyond something that baby wipes could remedy; this mess warranted a bath. I tried to hurry, but the poo on his legs had dried and its removal nearly required a putty knife. By the time I finished, I learned that Curtis had gotten called in to work, and the guests were starting to leave. As the last of the poopy water swirled down the drain, my dreams of putting the kids to bed and swilling wine with other grownups quickly dissipated.

And my husband was going to be gone (because apparently the sixty-two hours he had already worked last week weren't enough). Which meant I was going to be left with all the dinner dishes, and in charge of putting four kids to bed. Alone.

But, my adult socialization time was fun while it lasted. And our friends weren't too put off by the disgusting messes; after all, most of them read my blog.

"Put it this way," I told them. "You just got to see 'Fighting off Frumpy: Live.'"


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