Monday, August 6, 2012

WARNING: Do not read with food.

Aaah, to be my husband's cell phone.The information that baby holds, priceless I tell you. And I'm not talking seductively awesome nude photos of me in flattering light. Hey, a guy can dream though.

It's just that on certain days two worthy behaviors come into violent collision when he asks for an update during the day:

The use of clean language and the employment of honesty.


Honesty: 1 point.
Clean language: zero.

"&$^(OX Ans zMotH%&#(
Sh(*#)#^&$^@O))!@ and i can't )@&UTO
&#^@(%*9e believe #&(%TY# this is #^%(

Really. I tried to type verbatim what I texted him but apparently there are even internet laws against what came shooting from my psyche.

We've encountered a super fun phase as of late.

It's a multiple series science experiment run by Ellie Jane.

The hypothesis runs something like this:

Poop is interchangeable with playdough.

The test design goes like this:

Open diaper. 
Grab poop.
 Roll around and rub into carpet and 
hair and crib during nap time.


Mom dies.


Sorry folks, but as a work-at-home mom i insist that
some burdens just can't be expected to be born alone.

1 comment:

Joan said...

Oh. My. Wow.
May I offer two words of advice? Duct tape.
No, really. It works :)
Till then attempt to find solace in the fact that there is a woman in the world who knows exactly how you feel and what its like to scrape poop out of carpet, wipe it off of walls and from under finger nails.