Little boys are gross. They can think up the most awful things to do. This morning as I am struggling mightily through the laundry, H comes down the stairs. He reaches the landing between the first and second floor and just stops. I am watching him, but, I am folding clothes too. He lifts up his shirt and I see, too late I see, that he has disposed of his diaper...and he pees.
From the landing he unloads gallons of pee. He pees on the new workbench he got for Christmas, he pees on the stairs, he pees on his baby sister. The same baby sister who is sleeping for the first time in days. He pees on the swing she is sleeping in. He pees on the bouncy chair next to the swing. He hits the side of her car seat too, for good measure I guess. So much for her sleep. So much for the laundry. So much for the fact that I'm still sick. The baby must be bathed. H must be bathed. The toys must be taken out in the rain to be disinfected later today. The floor must be mopped. I must take a shower. The cat who also bore some of the brunt of his golden shower must also be bathed.
Shit. Frick. Damn. Why me?
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