Yesterday I turned 36. To celebrate the day, my kind, loving, caring husband sweetly informed me of the following as soon as I opened my eyes in the morning:
"Honey, now you're closer to 40 than to 30!"
I failed to come up with a smart rebuttal fast enough and promptly closed my eyes again. I should have pointed out that we're only the same age for five weeks... at the end of which, his age-o-meter will click up another notch.
A few minutes later, while eating at a very festive birthday breakfast table, Matthew looked at me and said:
"Hey, mom! Now you've been 9 years old four times!"
He then proceeded to also inform me that I've been 18 twice, and 6 six times. At least my birthday was good for some multiplication and division practice!
Regardless, I had a great day, hanging out with all of my boys and walking through the frosty forest nearby. Did I mention we had our first snow on Friday night?
Back to the headline. Here's the situation setup: your baby decides to take a middle-of-the-night poo while you're changing his already dirty diaper. The poo happens to come while the diaper is off and shoots out of him like a rocket. You know you're a mother when, in order to save the wall and the curtains from a mustard-yellow poo stain, you reach out to stop the flying poo with your hand! ICK!!!
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