The Sh*t hits the fan, er, floor. (If it's mealtime please read this later.)
Those of you who know me well, know that my life often revolves around icky, poopy incidents. My book actually opens with a crazy, chaotic poop scene that I plucked out of my own unusual version of motherhood.
Today, I was peacefully watching the Republican party tap dance faster than Mr. Bojangles on crack on CNN when my sweet, youngest child sidled up to me. "SNIFF." OH NO. She was dripping wet and smelled like the 10 foot perimeter that surrounds every porta-potty in America. LIKE CRAP.
I grabbed her and raced her into the bathroom. Sure enough. My middle love duck had used the commode and sauntered out of the bathroom sans flushing or closing the lid. And teeny girl moved in for the kill. I really do need to explain to her that poop is ALREADY DEAD! She went for a toilet dive and came up a winner. All over the floor. Great googly moogly poogly!
I had JUST scrubbed the three bathrooms in the house this morning. I stripped Miss Poopasaurus Rex and plopped her into the tub. Then I mopped and cleaned and wiped and flushed and fished and returned the poopy mess to its rightful home, the TOILET.
Why do I write? It's cheaper than therapy, more legal than pot and if I actually TOLD anyone my stories no one would believe me. So I might as well call them "fiction" and try to make some money. After all, someone has to pay for all that Lysol.
Now where's my beer?