8/1

I like July so much that I'm posting twice on the last day. By the time I finish writing this, though, it will be August 1st. I'm strangely happy to see this month go by. July always feels like such a long, incredibly hot month, even in climates that aren't sub-tropic.

I have a few random, depressing thoughts before I give P. a story, well, two stories actually. One involving poop and the other involving pee. It's a p & p for P. kind of night (P.S. - the onesies came and I LOVE THEM!!! They are so great, especially the cute striped ones. Thank you, thank you, thank you).

Thoughts:

1) J2 once told me that I should chane my middle name to 'silly' because I'm always joking. This has the perverse side effect of turning my initials into: B.S., which is great. I would love to have those initials and force any future editor or publisher to use those initials as my pen name. Tonight I'm feeling like changing my middle name to 'Disapointment', and I don't care how pathetic that sounds.

2) I must have some really, really bad karma to get stood up twice in one week.

3) I mean some really bad karma

4) It's so upsetting that I've stopped caring, except for the fact that I'm blogging about it, so clearly some part of me still cares. I should move on to the stories.

1st p & p story

It was Friday evening, after work. As soon as I got Zac home from daycare (side note: OMG! I picked Z. up from day care today and he was standing and playing with another boy!! I kept looking around the room for my little baby and all I saw were two toddlers) and he was screaming and screaming. He kept screaming. Food, cold objects, rocking, holding, and putting down on the floor only caused more screaming. He had covered my entire shirt in tears, saliva, and half-eaten, spit-up food. His entire face was red. Finally, he let out a giant belch and stopped crying. He had indigestion.

I decided to take the opportunity afforded to me by said giant belch to go to the video store to pick up some movies. I did not change my shirt - I didn't even snap the buttons of the crotch on his onesie. We just got in the car, looking like two shell-shocked war veterans with hundred-yard stares.

We get out the car and I decide, brilliantly I might add, that I'm goinig to be really fast inside the store and I don't want to take the time to get out the stroller. Brilliant, right? Well, I'm holding said filthy baby in my filthy arms and trying to find, "Flight of the Phoenix" because it's set in Mongolia when I feel a warm, familiar liquid in my left arm. He had pooped. Out the side of his diaper. Into my arm. Covering the side of my shirt. I couldn't put him down. I couldn't keep holding him. I had to try and 'catch' (I put that in quotations because Zac has liquidy, smelly, nasty, disgusting poop that no sane person could ever collect in their hands) the poop that I could before it fell onto the floor. I finally found the blasted movie and went to the check-out stand. Only to realize that to get my money out of my wallet, I'll have to put Zac on the counter and balance him between my chest while I fish for the bills. He left a wet, poopy mark in the exact shape of a butt-print. My new slogan for Blockbuster is: "Shit happens

2nd p & p story:

I'm in the shower with my industrious son playing in the bathroom. The bathroom connects between our two rooms. If I close the doors to the hallway, he has plenty of space to crawl back and forth in the runway of the narrowest-bathroom-God-ever-created and the two bedrooms. I had gone pee before getting in the shower and forgotten to flush (HEY! I'm from the Northwest. We're big fans of the phrase, "If it's yellow, let it mellow". All judgements about me and my hygiene need to end here).

I hear Zac playing, pushing the shower curtain away so he can see me, then crawling away, giggling. I start to smell the very distinct smell of urine. My urine.

I jump out of the shower to see my son holding a cup (a freakin' cup!!), dipping the cup into my urine, and pouring it out on the floor. I didn't know whether to be horrified or insanely proud. Not only had he found a way to open the toilet bowl lid, he went in search of a cup, found a cup, carried back to the toilet, and began using the cup to take liquid out. The fact that it was my bodily waste that was quickly smelling up the entire second floor of my apartment only dampened my enthusiasm for his endeavor.

The crazy thing is, the smell reminded me of Mongolia. I spent Saturday afternoon disinfecting the upstairs bathroom and purchased a toilet lock for the lid. My kid is a freaking genious, you know.