I usually don't go for the "mommy blogger" posts. Ok, honesty time here, I don't actually "usually" post at all. But today, well today was one of THOSE days.
Things started out well enough. Mr. W took the lowercase downstairs while I stayed in bed a little while longer. As I came down the stairs, I was greeted by an insistent little boy.
"Mommy, I need to get in the innernets. I'm good at the innernets. But I don't know how to get in to it."
Then in the late afternoon, the lowercase had to go to the bathroom. I was in the family room one floor down, listening for him to tell me when he needed my help. I hear the patter of little feet coming to the top of the stairs.
"Mommy, I accidentally pooped on the floor."
Yes. He did. I run upstairs as fast as I can, sliding in my socks across the kitchen floor as I attempt to turn down the hallway to the bathroom. But there's nothing on the floor. My son, is nonchalantly patting me on the arm.
"I'm very sorry I did that accident. But I picked it up and put it in the toilet."
Yes. He did. He picked it up with the same hand he is now patting me with and flushed it away. I wipe the floor down with disinfecting wipes. I break out the antibacterial soap and help him thoroughly scrub his hands.
We then get ready for dinner. I made my first ever attempt at Cornish game hens. I feared they would burn and when I didn't smell smoke, I feared it would be raw. Perfectly done, not burned and not raw. And according to the lowercase, "not good."
"Mommy, my chicken is not supposed to be slimy."
Note to self: don't attempt to pass duck off as chicken, either. He won't buy it.
After dinner, both Mr. W and I kept smelling poop when the lowercase was near us. Nothing in his pants, his skin has been scrubbed. Up to the bathtub we go. And then we realize. It was in his hair! After picking up the accident he was so sorry for -- he wiped his hands off. In his hair.
Yes. He did.
