I have been shifting through the toddler poop all day. After four days of no pooping, we have poopapalooza. That is little man and me, celebrating our poopfest, looking and smelling at all of the poop. I am waiting for my husband to get home. He said he was packing the office up, like 20 minutes ago. Assured he is close to home, I call my husband - he apoligizes, he is still packing up the office. I start to wonder if he got fired - I mean, why else would it take that long to pack up the office? No, he did not get fired, he just takes longer to leave work than my toddler takes to get to the door. I take a deep breathe - I stifle my irritation, but it resurfaces when I remember his vow to be home for family dinners by 6:30pm, that promise lasted a measly week. Nevermind family dinner tonight - it is out son's bedtime and my poop sniffing sick self is making him shrimp scampi (from a box).
Not knowing when the husband will be home makes it hard to prepare dinner - or any other task I want to complete before prime time programming begins (the TV does not go on in our house until after we put little man to bed). I mainly want my husband home because little man is an absolute barbarian in the evenings. Tonight he is a poopy barbarian. It is creeping past his bedtime and despite my threats to put him to bed before daddy gets home, we are waiting. It is not because I am fairminded - it is mainly because we are waiting for his poopy blanky to finish its spin in the dryer.
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