This morning, I decided that I am far too young to have two toddlers. If I were giving grades in family planning I would give myself a "D." [ NOTE: I am not grading on a curve... If, for example, one were to take into account teenagers and couples whose family planning goal appears to be fielding a Division 1-A athletic program, I would clearly get a B+.]
Per the custom at casa t'pon, this morning Bean woke up just shy of 6 AM. I heard him come down the stairs, pitter-pat across the tile floors into our room, SLAM the freaking door, and then creep up to my side of the bed. Now, this is usually when he climbs over me into our bed for about 30 minutes of uninterrupted Bean-time (until Banzo wakes up in earnest). Instead, on this fine fall morning, I was assaulted -- smacked in the face with a wet and heavy diaper and informed by my eldest son that he was, in fact, "WET!"
happy freaking blue bird day...
I headed upstairs to get Banzo shortly after meeting little Mussolini's additional demands for "MILKSH!" and "TEEBEE ON! HEHWOES!" (which for those of you not versed in Bean-speak amounts to Milk and Higglyto*wn Heroes). Per the custom at casa t'pon, the smell of crap was heavy as I opened the door. And this morning, I was greeted by a huge shit-eatin' grin... literally. Poop on the sheets, poop on his hands, poops in his hair, and poop on his mouth. One giant, 27-lbs poopsicle.
its a shit-shining day...
Clean everyone up, make the morning bottle, curl up in bed with my boys and start to feel the warm glow of motherhood push aside the less than stellar start to this Friday. I roll over, and there is that familiar smell again... poop. On my sheets. Not much, but enough. Not from the kids... please Gahd, not from N... nope, from my left boob. A big smear of baby shit on my shirt. C-R-A-P... hmmmm.
And then, as I am semi-silently cursing a blue streak. I hear it... "HAPPY OU-AY OO YOU!" with big snotty kisses and vice-like hugs. We dance to the Bea*tles. And it only gets better from here.