I love picking up Ella, feeling wetness on my arm and realizing I’m covered in shit to my elbows.
Speaking of poopy diapers, I adore when I change a poopy diaper and within minutes it’s filled again! Yay.
I also love when I make Carson’s favorite lunch and he proceeds to pitch most of it on the floor and tells the dogs “sank sou” (thank you) when they gobble it up. Ahh. Gee. Manners.
My favorite is when I stumble groggily back to bed at 4 AM after feeding Ella only to nearly pass out from the noxious odor that awaits me. It’s even better if Tate starts giggling like a school girl and I get to punch him in the back.
I love shopping at Walfart, running errands in traffic while listening to the same Thomas DVD over and over and over, balancing the checkbook, sitting on hold with the comcastic shitastic cable company, trying on clothes in dressing rooms and having the fluorescent lighting cast a lovely glow over my cottage cheese…
What do you love?
I am not in a bad mood, I am not in a bad mood, I am not in a bad mood. I am not in a bad mood. I am not in a bad mood. I am not in a bad mood.
i love when i get pooped ON, down my tummy, in the middle of church and have to use my baby as a decoy until i can go home and change.
i love that at church i can’t explain to people that the baby just shit on me.
I also love making dinner so the dog can eat it.
I love that after they feed their dinner to the dog they yell about being hungry.
I love that they seem to think the proper way to signal that meal-time is over is to throw your plate on the floor.
And that’s just my dinnertime “loves.”
you know what I love? when Ifinally get the # of unread blog posts in my feed reader UNDER 100, and then while I’m reading, not one but TWO ppl post, putting me back up over 100.
I love leaving the children in the morning to go for … say… an MRI OF MY BRAIN, and come back to find that the baby hasn’t been changed and his diaper is falling off is ass. No one has eaten. Except daddy. Who didn’t know they were hungry.
I LOVE when daddy tells me to be careful that the baby is playing with something hard/swallowable/dangerous/yucky.
I could go on. & on. & on.
I love being past the diaper stage. I love that my 16-year old sometimes lets me hold his hand on the drive to school. I love that my daughter (age 12) is still quite nice to me. I love that my husband adores me, and that the feeling is pretty close to mutual. I have a pretty darned good life. You do, too. It’s just hard to see when you have shit up to your elbows and are deliriously tired. I’m sure you’re over it by now