Another Day, Another Dollar–or Not

It’s official. I am a stay-at-home mom.

I went to Sunset today and told my team I’m not coming back, and even though they were sad (which was flattering) and I was sad in the moment of looking at all their faces and just being in that building with all the beauty and flora and creative energy, I know it’s the right decision.

And, considering my day yesterday, that is saying a lot.

Yesterday was marked by two major poop explosions. First was Kate’s which came shortly after the nap she allegedly takes each day. The thing is,  the diaper that they’d put on her at preschool was scooted over to one side–kinda like a thong, but only over the left butt cheek. Suffice it to say it was ineffective at trapping the poo. And without diving too deeply into the minutiae of scatology, a poop explosion with a toddler is a much different situation than it is with a baby.

So, when Paige took her turn, she had to throw in a twist. We were out for what was to be a short walk to the dry cleaner. Kate saw the library and decided she wanted to go in, and since Paige was crying and hungry I consented and decided to feed her on a couch there. After Paige nursed for a while and we all read some books, Paige was staring dreamily out into the middle distance looking as satisfied and content as a baby can be. I should have known something else was brewing–if only for the fact that I, of course, had no diaper bag with me.

Let’s just say Paige’s project was so loud that it shattered the silence in the library. And when I dared to look, her entire back was sopping wet and bright orange with poo. Thankfully my pants were black, and the wrap I eventually tucked Paige in–poop-strewn as she was–was navy blue.

I’m happy to report that on our walk home I didn’t bump into any old boyfriends or anything. Paige and I were wet and stinky. It’s no surprise Kate was lagging half a block behind, feigning interest in the front gardens she passed by and trying to look like she didn’t know us.

Mark walked in the door last night five minutes after a calm that followed both girls totally melting down and losing it. Things suddenly got miraculously quiet right after several minutes of mayhem, and I should have known Mark was about to walk in. Sick as it is, I wished that he’d gotten there in the high (or low?) point of it all so he could witness what that witching hour is sometimes like.

To be fair, Mark does know and appreciate that the going can get tough. He was great about taking the baby, jumping in with Kate’s dinner, etc. But when Paige needed to be fed he had to apologetically hand her back over.

I sat in the rocking chair in Paige’s room. Still wearing my likely shit-stained black pants, and nursed Paige with my tired head literally held up by my hands.

Paige ate her fill then stared up at me. And before I knew it was coming, an immense arc of vomit came rushing out of her mouth covering her, my shirt, and the 80% of my pants that were devoid of her earlier shared fecal matter. All I could think of was, “Of course.”

Back in my office-work era I certainly had some stressed out times, but–in the literal sense–yesterday took the cake for shitty days.

Ah well, it was nothing that my fourth load of laundry for the day couldn’t wash clean.