See, I was planning to come over here and tell you about something. But I got all smartsy and tossed out a status update, thusly:
And do you know what happened within ten minutes of that?
Poonami.
Poonado.
Pooricane.
Pootastrophe.
And now I’m down six cups of bleach, half a container of Clorox wipes, two layers of scrubbed-off skin, and am very much suffering from a poo-induced version of PTSD. I had to send The Child to her room, ferry the salvageables to the laundry and the nots to the trash, and come close the blinds and rock. By myself.
That bad.
So untouched is The Child by the wake of destruction left (literally) behind her that she not only refrained from protest when sent to her room, but proceeded to sing and giggle and otherwise make merry. Pretty nervy, you ask me.
I fear for all of us – am terrified that this may be the beginning of a poodemic. Or worse . . .
The Apoocalypse.
