I told Hot Husband this morning that the 3 words I fear most in this world are "Mom! Lincoln pooped!"
In the span of 36 hours I have cleaned up vomit, shit and blood all from my children none in an appropriate receptacle.
The best day could be swallowing me whole and then a body fluid disaster happens and suddenly I'm in the belly of a whale, desperate to gain traction on its huge, slimy tongue. It isn't a good time.
Perhaps the bloody noses, periods, stomach bugs wouldn't bother me so much if Captain Crap wasn't my 6 year old son. Maybe the grip of the whale's digestive tract wouldn't be such a burden if I had a boy who was confident in the loo.
Keeps me real, though. No getting all haughty and high and mighty around here! Nothing quite like wiping shit from the walls and floor and toilet seat when your son tries to dispose of the load himself to keep a woman's head out of the clouds.
"Shit" is the word I use because that's what it is. He's a gyoza guzzling, mac n cheese munching, scrambled egg scarfing little man and his BM's hold all the glory of his varied, protein rich diet.
Hot Husband laughed when I said it, he's been there. He knows. He mourns this part of our son, too. As he so eloquently puts it: "Lincoln will always be the most interesting person in the room, he's just gotta stop shitting his pants."
So this Christmas, among all of the other things I'm sure my totally charmed life will be handing me, I have one extra request (obviously our of pure selfishness): Please, Universe, don't let him poop under the tree. Thank you.
In the span of 36 hours I have cleaned up vomit, shit and blood all from my children none in an appropriate receptacle.
The best day could be swallowing me whole and then a body fluid disaster happens and suddenly I'm in the belly of a whale, desperate to gain traction on its huge, slimy tongue. It isn't a good time.
Perhaps the bloody noses, periods, stomach bugs wouldn't bother me so much if Captain Crap wasn't my 6 year old son. Maybe the grip of the whale's digestive tract wouldn't be such a burden if I had a boy who was confident in the loo.
Keeps me real, though. No getting all haughty and high and mighty around here! Nothing quite like wiping shit from the walls and floor and toilet seat when your son tries to dispose of the load himself to keep a woman's head out of the clouds.
"Shit" is the word I use because that's what it is. He's a gyoza guzzling, mac n cheese munching, scrambled egg scarfing little man and his BM's hold all the glory of his varied, protein rich diet.
Hot Husband laughed when I said it, he's been there. He knows. He mourns this part of our son, too. As he so eloquently puts it: "Lincoln will always be the most interesting person in the room, he's just gotta stop shitting his pants."
So this Christmas, among all of the other things I'm sure my totally charmed life will be handing me, I have one extra request (obviously our of pure selfishness): Please, Universe, don't let him poop under the tree. Thank you.
1 comment:
Mr Lincoln! Please don't leave a Christmas poo under the tree!
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