My kids are deep into the potty talk stage and although I've been assured that this is a completely normal part of being three, I grow weary. There is entirely too much poop in my life without having to listen to Maggie sing "My bottom came to school today, school today, school today. My vagina came to school today. Early in the morning," during bath time (complete with visual aids, thank you very much).
Between the dog, four chickens, and two mostly-potty-trained pre-schoolers it can sometimes feel as if I am always either wiping a butt or picking up a steaming pile of excrement. I suppose this is the life I signed on for, and seeing as I am fortunate enough to have indoor plumbing, a hefty supply of wipes, and a mop, I shouldn't complain. But, please, allow me to recount my day.
It started at five when Maggie woke up cocooned in a mass of urine-soaked blankets. Once that was cleaned up and she was once again ensconced in her requisite pink (we said we wouldn't, but we do), we stumbled downstairs for our Cheerios only to be greeted by our dog's diarrhea splattered across the living room floor like some Jackson Pollack masterpiece. Okaaay, we said, taking a deep breath, we've been through this before. The Mister changed into his Haz. Mat. suit (cut off sweatpants and an old stained t-shirt) and took the rug outside for a little pressure hosing.
I went to work.
Fast forward ten hours.
I arrive home with the kids (the Mister is swimming in the Bay) and upon opening the front door, am confronted with a physics problem I assure you I am incapable of figuring out. It goes like this: how can all that shit possibly have been inside that medium-sized dog?
So now we have no rug and no rug pad.
But our floors are VERY clean at the moment and I leave for Venice in 36 hours, so again, I can't complain.
Oh, and in case you are wondering, the next line is, "My penis came to school today, school today, school today." Everybody sing!
I'm an expert, but if you need help identifying who made these turds, go here.