It's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it. And apparently that somebody's me.

First off, let me apologize for the delay in this week's post. We were out of town all weekend and I had no way of posting. But think of it this way - you're that much closer to this week's post! Ewwww... can you handle it??

Alright, on with the posting. And while you read, remember the purpose of The Mommy Diaries - to share with you all of the crap-tacular things that are sometimes involved in this mommy's life so that you know that you're not alone. And for the record, my husband hasn't even heard this story. It's that glamorous.

So last week, let's call it Wednesday (because I don't really remember which day it was and Wednesday's right in the middle), I was getting ready for work and trying to wrangle the kids and leave the house without forgetting anyone or anything, like I do. Now Jericho, mommy's little angel, is one mischievous little body and likes to get into everything. So as I'm trying to get ready to actually leave the house, I let Joci and Jericho play in the living room while I round up whatever it is that I need for the day. And seeing as how my little man is such an explorer and my little lady is such a little mother, it comes as no surprise to me when I hear Joci groan, "Ja-er-icho - NOOOOOOO," and stop off after him. I think nothing much of what's going on in the other room and I finish wrangling and gathering and I'm finally ready to go. But of course it's never that easy.

When I pick Jericho up to leave the house, I see his fat little fist clenched around something and shake his hand until he let's go. Whatever it was drops to the floor and we head for the car. As we're driving, I ask Joci what Jericho was getting into back home when she was watching him. "Poop," she answers calmly. Poop?... I think, and I continue to go over this in my head. What the heck would he be getting into poop for? And where would he get - - - damn dog crapped on the kitchen floor again. That stupid worthless dog crapped on the damn floor and now I have to clean - Wait.

"Joc, did you say 'poop'?" I respond as soon as I realize what's just happened. "Yep. He was touching it with his hands." That little monster had a turd in his hand when I picked him up. Freakin' gross. Freakin' gross - my son's a little turd grabber. Then it hits me. Jericho has poop on his hands. Great. Like I'm ever on time in the morning anyway, now I have to pull over and clean his hands up. So it's when I reach into the back seat to clean his hands off that I realize that his hand (ya know, the poop grabbing one) is just absolutely covered. I look and him, blankly, and just sit staring at him for a moment, wondering why I'm blessed with such a glamorous life. (Please God, pass some of the love around. Don't spoil me.) Anywho, so I finish cleaning him off, shaking my head in disbelief the whole time, and drive on to daycare. Oh - but it gets better.
It's not until after I get to daycare that I see the second best (and trust me I'll get to the best) part of this whole ordeal. His daycare lady takes him from me and kind of looks at his shirt and starts to scratch at a spot that's on it and asks me if he's already had breakfast. "Nope, that's shit," is what I want to say. "Oh, gosh, I didn't see that. He got into something earlier and we should change him," is what I should say. But instead, "No, he must have just gotten something on him," is what I actually say. I'm so ashamed and embarrassed about Little Mr. Crap Hands that I can't even tell her what I'm just sure is actually on his shirt. Luckily, she makes some random comment about how it's warming up and she'll change him into short sleeves anyway, and I'm off the hook. But no I'm not, because that's not how things work 'round here.

Blah, blah, blah, day continues, and I can't get the smell of dog crap out of my nose. Oh, but wait - (here's that "best part" part) maybe the reason that I still smell dog crap is because it's smeared on the shoulder of my shirt. And upon further investigation, it's also smeared on the sleeve of my shirt. And did I mention that it's nearly lunch time by this point? I had been sitting around (luckily not in close proximity to anyone) all day covered in poop and apparently just loving every minute of it. I obviously can't tell anyone, I don't have anything to change into, and I work nearly an hour from home, so what the hell am I supposed to do? Well, I tell you what I did. Nothing, really. I tried to clean it with a Shout Wipe and then just sat around in it the rest of the day. Talk about embarrassment. I did, however, bathe myself in fancy-smelling lotion the rest of the day and take that crap-rag of a shirt off as soon as my feet hit the door that night. I made a pact with, well, me that night that I would never tell anyone about what happened. And I guess that now that little plan's out the window. But hopefully, if anything, your day today was better than this mommy's last Wednesday (or whichever day it was).