For a second I practice wishful thinking and tell myself he's referring to the poopies he's seeing in the bathroom - the diaper, the small mountain of soiled wipes, the dirty outfit. But I'm pretty sure that's not the case when he yells again - "POOPIES, MAMA! POOPIES!" and points back toward the direction of my bedroom. Where, when I venture in a few minutes later following a naked toddler (still screaming "POOPIES! POOPIES!" and pointing the way ahead) and with a still fussing naked baby girl in arms, I see it. Yes, son. Poopies. Many of them, on my carpet. I have photographic evidence, which I texted to my husband without even stopping to think "for real? This is my life? I photograph POOP and send it to my beloved?" No worries, dear friends, I'll spare you the picture. But I promise you this .... it made my husband VERY VERY glad to be chained to his desk and NOT at home with the littles.
Leaping lizards. This has been a week for the record books. Beyond the poopies, there's just been a whole lot of craziness. Meds for A's legs (AGAIN) that required THREE trips to TWO pharmacies to FINALLY get our hands on, forty minutes round trip in the car to pick up meds for cats' (PLURAL) infected ears (AGAIN), Sequoia sales escapades, crying in the mall parking lot before I pulled away from that mall for the very last time probably ever in my whole LIFE, fighting back tears as I sat behind the wheel of my Sequoia for the last time EVER in my whole LIFE before J drove off with it today, paperwork paperwork paperwork, money flying out our ears because EVERYONE needs some check or payment or deposit or SOMETHING, the denial I'm carrying around that I actually have to say GOODBYE to all these awesome Austin friends of mine in one week's time and board a plane with the littles (ALONE) .... and the constant tidying and sweeping of a house on the market that nobody's come to look at in over a week .... oy vey. Mama needs a drink or ten. Or, you know, to start my work shift and hope to GOODNESS I can cram it all in before either little wakes up screaming. (Or pooping.)
And just before I hit post, a Realtor called to show the house. Which is gooder than good. But the house is a wreck and smells like, you know, POOP. Not good, needs to be handled. Over and out.