I’m pathologically independent. Ok, I made that up, but sometimes I need to ask for help and don’t. The most I come up with is some passive-aggressive statement like “Mommy can’t do five things at once.” Not that I don’t try. Sometimes I succeed. Sometimes I cry in the shower and eat copious amounts of chocolate. More often, I feel overwhelmed and lose my shit. I seldom ask for help.
Removing poop from underwear is an entirely different process from changing a diaper. I hope, dear reader, you won’t add this to your list of unpleasant parental experiences. If you’re lucky enough to know the poop is there, you may be able to channel your inner bomb expert and shimmy down your kid’s undies without dropping the turd on the floor. Of course, that’s assuming your toddler doesn’t do a little wiggle right at the end and fling it onto your foot or the wall or an unsuspecting sibling in the area. If you happen to have a cold or otherwise fail to notice the heaping pile in your kid’s drawers, you get to do the honors of flinging shit onto your foot or the wall or an unsuspecting offspring in the area.
As parents, hearing stranger’s parenting suggestions are like nails on a chalkboard. On the other hand, my infant daughter, Penelope, doesn’t understand our frustrations, and welcomes any and all opinions. In this post, Penny and I “discuss” when it’s appropriate for strangers to intervene and the duty to rescue.
My husband eats everything. I always expect the one thing I look forward to at the end of the day to not be there when I get home, but I have yet to become inured by my everlasting disappointment.