Honestly, I shouldn't complain. I am trying my damnedest not to, really I am. I would love to tell you about Nate's emotional preschool graduation (and I will, soon, I promise.) I would love to tell you about how proud I am of myself for finally running every day, in the heat, and pushing through, even when my lungs burned. (Okay, I guess I just kind of did that.)
I would love to tell you about how baseball season is ending, or our summer plans. I would love to tell you about some of the wedding inspiration ideas (okay here's one, it's the place card idea I fell in love with.)
But not right now. Right now all I really want to tell you is that if my son sticks his hand down his pants one more time only to pull it out covered in his poop, and then say "Mama look, I poop!" I may cry. In fact when he did that today, smack dab in the middle of me preparing our traditional Friday night pizzas, hands covered in flour and cheese, and stickiness, I let out a whimper... or two... or three, because today was one of those days. And I frantically said
" don't touch anything!
I have to wash my hands!
Are you touching anything?
Never mind just stand next to me so I know you can't touch anything.
NOOOO! Not hold on to my leg!
You touched meeeeee!!!!"
Yes, that is what I want to tell you about today. Poop. And the little one who loves to stick his hands in it.
That and one of my other children just said to me (because I told him it was time to clean up his toys) that he wished he was a bee, because then he'd sting me. How dare I ask him to pick up after himself.
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