Four worst words in the English language:
Mom, I've got diarrhea.
Just shoot me. M is off gallivanting around Mississippi with friends from Columbia. They're eating yummy foods, going to and performing in concerts (the friends perform, M attends), doing all the fun stuff that young, married, and currently childless professors do.
I am wiping butts.
And, of course, last night was a series of thunderstorms, so there was a threesome in my bed. Not the good kind, either. The two hot, kicking, snoring, whimpering kids kind. So, Clooney was lip smacking, licking, snoring, scratching, and whining in his sleep, the kids were snoring, whining and tossing and turning in their sleep, and I was up, listening to the storms. And their racket.
Despite their lack of firm stool, I sent those suckers to school today. They had only the one episode of pooh yesterday, and then one more this morning. They had no fever, no complaints, just itchy butts. Off you go, the Prep H will be here when you get home.
Why, by the way, does my bedside light turn on whenever there is lightning?
Why, now that I am spending more time with my kids' butts, do underwear makers put the picture on the BACK of the kids' underwear? Kids want to see the picture, and therefore wear the underwear backwards, resulting in a significant wedgie (and truth be told, uh, tracks).
Why? and When did my life boil down to wedgies and sleepovers? Again? Didn't I suffer through this once as a kid?
Why is there no school on Monday?
Why did my sister bring this godforsaken death virus to my house?
Nothing like a sleepless sleepover with sick kids. Yippee. Now that is fun.
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