Dear Mama:
Today was a hard day. I woke up to one of my little men kicking the wall between his bed and our room. I pray a little breath prayer, “Lord, help me today. Surely, I will need you.”
I hear my husband walk down the hall, showered, dressed and post workout. Jerk. Kidding. Maybe.
I take my morning breath and greasy-haired self out of bed. Feet on the floor, P, feet on the floor.I hear Bret arguing with a kid to throw his paci. This is our morning mantra with him, as he firmly shakes his head and firmer still, “nope!” They are duking it out when I walk into his brother’s room.
Instantly, my still asleep brain registers that the smell, is in fact, not my morning breath. Seriously??? AGAIN???
A little backstory. The boys are potty trained. Which to those who have mothered, nannied or babysat a potty trained toddler, know that potty trained does not necessarily mean neverhaveaccidentseveragain or nevertakeadoodie on my striped rug, that my mommy loves.
It most certainly, does not mean that.
Much less every other morning for like two weeks. Truly. It’s comical and shocking and gross and infuriating all rolled into one. He doesn’t just pop a squat on the floor. He tries to clean it up. He covers it in clean nighttime pullups…often times ten of them. Or an entire box of kleenex. Sometimes I just find a little surprise under a pile of paper. Like the street vendor game with an object under three little cups. You have to watch closely and guess which one has the little nut under it. In my case, there is no prize for guessing correctly.
And just to paint a clear picture for you, his well-intentioned efforts do not clean anything up. In fact, all it does it smoosh more doodie into the striped rug that I love. THIS IS WHY I DON’T HAVE A DOG PEOPLE!!!
Ok, back to the nasal assault of human feces (I know, gross, but it’s only fair you have a full appreciation). He is sitting on his cute whale sheets, swinging his legs and says, “I went poopoo.” S&%t, indeed.
Then I realize he has no pants on. And no underwear. Though my brain is working excruciatingly faster now, it takes a second to compute that due to all of the kleenex on the floor, and the fact he can’t really ahem, clean himself well yet, he is grinding more filth into those cute sheets with every leg swing.
“Nooooooooooooooooo!” screeches out before I can even stop it. Bret comes flying in with the other hangry child, and his brother bursts into tears.
Well done, mommy. Well done.
