you've made my shitlist

While feeding and dressing kids this morning (because they're always either hungry or naked or both, so annoying) the guy I married and me had a conversation that went a little something like this:

HIM: "I really have to go to the bathroom."

ME: "Yeah, well forget it. I have to go too and I probably won't be able to go until at least 10 o'clock."

This is what our lives have been reduced to. Jealousy and resentment regarding the other's ability to have a bm has become the norm around here.

Each of my kids have their own little turd tale.

The princess once ate a dime. We kept vigil for three long days until we finally, wielding a shish kabob skewer, became ten-cents-none-the-richer.

The punk, being the rabid fan of candy that she is, can often be let out of her restraints, if only for a short time, if she is occupied by chocolate. That one fateful day, I was knee deep in something pressing - laundry, cooking, facebook...I can't recall. I turned a blind eye when she got into the Easter basket because it would buy me a few more minutes to play family feud, I mean fold laundry. I planned to stick her right into the tub after to wash away all the melted chocolate. As I approached her however, much to my chagrin, reality quickly set in. The melted chocolate was not melted chocolate, but in fact a puddle of explosive diarrhea. Live and learn.

Holy Shit

To complete this fecal fable, today at work a three year old the size of Chris Farley pooped his pants. After taking a few moments to ponder my career path, and its certain unfortunate particulars, I mentally prepared myself for the task at hand. While changing him, I inadvertently dropped the huge steaming man-sized turd. These things happen. They usually happen to me. It splatted onto a foot stool in all its glory. This is a stool I often sit on to tie shoelaces or help button pants. I will no longer be doing that.

Shit happens.

listen to: L7 ~ shit list