And So Ends The Day

Folded laundry stacked in piles all over the house for some reason does not leave me with a feeling of accomplishment. The reason is probably because I know that until they get put away, each folded stack has a 99.99% chance of getting toppled over just like a short lived terrorist's regime.

Dark red luggage left on the deck to air out with Febreze is marked up with sidewalk chalk. One hefty duffel bag holds various pieces of chalk "so that we can take it to Grandpa and Grandma's house." Lovely. At least the suitcases smell pretty, though the white clouded covers and insides look like they were wheeled through a flour factory.

A wake up call bright and early this morning was in the form of excreted substance from my teething 14 month old. Poop on the sheet. Poop on the blankets (all 3 of them). Poop on the pillowcase. Poop on the bumper pad. Poop on the crib. Poop on the floor. Poop... you get the idea.

A fresh sheet, clean blankets and fluffed pillow were more than that 14 month old could ask for when it came time for a nap. A little cow pie pile of baby poop sat in the middle of the bed when I went in to get him up. Oh yeah, and it had streaked on the clean blanket as well. I am debating whether or not to change the bed because by morning he'll be back at it again. (just kidding... the original sheets are clean and ready.)

We are leaving on a 10 day trip. I have tons of stuff to do. Everything I start, gets interrupted, destroyed, turned upside down, and then pooped on. My to-do list ends with "Finish Everything On List" because I was so desperate to find more work to do so I could cross it off my list because getting my list completed is a job in and of itself.

Oh, and that pooping teething 14 month old? He has Mad Baby Disease. Basically, he is depressed and down about everything in life. His weight bothers him -- especially on his thighs. His latest hair cut. That new bruise on his forehead after he ran into the piano bench the other day... He's just sick and tired of running into so many problems during his day (pun intended). He never gets fed. His diapers are left unchanged. He even wakes up in his own excretions. This is America folks, yet this twenty-five-pound-fourteen-month-old-food-scarfing-hefty little kid is suffering from the bad life he has. Yeah... he has it rough. No wonder he's so sad.

So, instead of sitting down and having a good cry myself because life is one never ending uncompleted falling apart pooping project after another, I sat down and blogged. Hey, it's either bawl or blog. At least this way, someday I can blackmail my kids look back at the good ole' days and say "Boy, I'm glad those are over!" "Those were THE days!!" because I have them documented in something other than tears.