It was a Monday, through and through. Zumba was sweaty and I kept finding myself a few steps behind, mostly because I was thinking about whether my DVR was set to record the Bachelorette and whether it might conflict with RHONJ, or how much I wanted some Twizzlers. We went to Walmart after that. Enough said, right? Except I also need to say that Anderson was in a particularly defiant mood (and by defiant I do mean maddeningly so) and that on the way out, as I was crossing a crosswalk in the rain with a cart full of groceries and two toddlers in that cart, some old guy drove blindly across the crosswalk, nearly running us down and I may or may not have shouted something like "DON'T MIND THE BABIES HERE YOU AY-ESS-ESS-HOLE!" right there in front of Walmart. It was just a very Mondayish Monday, you know? But then. Yall. The SHIT! We're out walking down the "street" (quotation marks on account of the fact that this "street" is just a gravel road that goes down past our house about 1/4 mile into the woods then stops). Me, the kids, the dog, a wagon, and that awesomely redneckish four wheeler riding toy of ours. A's running up ahead (because again, it's a "street" and I'm not terribly concerned about traffic), and I hear him yell "MAMA! Poopies!" But the thing is, he calls everything on the ground "poopies"- rocks, tree bark, et cetera. So I'm not really paying much attention to the alleged poopies. Until Vivian "runs" ahead (quotation marks on account of that she can't exactly "run", just toddle in a fast fashion that looks a lot like me fast walking to the loo after a few glasses of wine). And she catches up to Anderson and Anderson offers up the "poopies". And Vivian takes the "poopies" and puts her hand to her mouth and then, then, then .... just as I catch up I see she's eating something. THE POOPIES. Which, I'm now considering with some horror, might actually be poopies. I look down to the ground beside where he picked up these "poopies" and see, indeed, there are poopies. Dog poopies. NOT our dog's poopies, not like it's that much less gross if it's our own dog instead of some random medium sized stray dog in the woods. So now I'm very sure my sweet baby girl is eating poopies. And so I grab her chin and pry apart her steel trap jaws and yank out the poopies. And dry heave. And then try to figure out what to do with two kids, one who has poop hands and another who has poop hands and poop mouth, out here in the woods with nothing to clean these kids that I don't really even want to TOUCH on account of the poopies. So I pick up the little one and instruct the big one to walk and NOT to touch anything (including me, like I wasn't already contaminated after extracting the poopies). Except he's screaming now because we're leaving his WAGON and his FOUR WHEELER out there in the "street" in the woods. So that's how I ended up carrying two kids who weigh a collective 57 pounds 1/4 of a mile back into the house, then into the bathroom where we scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed a little more.
Oh, yall. I SO earned this evening in my bed watching reality TV. And the grilled bratwurst and XL glass of wine my husband brought to me in said bed. But so far? The Bachelorette is concerning me. I mean, one guy has a kid named Cozy. Cozy! As a NAME! And another guy has crazy eyes and another guy is a butcher. A butcher! And do I even need to talk about the guy wearing a mask? (A mask!)
Silver lining of this very Mondayish Monday: my little Bug picked me some flowers. Don't even ask what happened to his head.
Also don't ask why his shirt is inside out.