Potty Talk

WARNING: The following contains graphic material and may not be suitable for everyone. Read at your own risk.


We had just returned from our camping trip, and My dear friend Mrs X had stopped by to visit. Alex was running around like a crazy person, Spain was fighting an impeding nap, and I was just glad to be out of the car.
Mrs X and I were sitting on the couch talking, Alex had disappeared And Spain needed a diaper change. Suddenly we hear a frail "Mama" wobble from the hallway. The cry became frantic "MAMA! MAMA! IT WON"T STOP!!". The hallway was empty when I peeked around the corner, the commotion was coming from the bathroom. I rushed to the bathroom and my soul withered. Alex was standing next the bathtub hopping around the floor on small dry islands, as the toilet spilled over. Water rushed into the hallway as I took in the scene.

My brain suddenly acknowledged what was happening. I raced back to the living room and handed Spain to Mrs. X. I darted to the dining room table where my phone was innocently resting by a collection of our mail. Without stopping, I grabbed the phone and raced back to the bathroom. Water was taking over the entire bathroom and a nice expanse of the hallway. With one foot I leaped onto the Go Diego! Go! stool that I seriously doubted could support my weight, and the other foot I braced on the top of the toilet tank. I simultaneously leaned over the toilet to grab the plunger from the corner, scrolled through the contacts list on my phone to find the maintenance number, and prayed fervently for the toilet, for me to not fall into the toilet, and for the rapture to happen that very moment.

My hand wrapped around the handle of the plunger as I hit the send button on my cell phone. In my precarious perch, I nestled the phone against my shoulder, adjusted my footing, and plunged the plunger into the abyss. The toilet gurgled and the water immediately started retreating down the drain. As the water disappeared the perky lady on the phone.
I calculated the odds that they would come clean the mess up for me.
"Thanks, I think I resolved the issue myself." I absently said into the phone.

I'm not going to go into detail about the clean up. Let's just say, clean up took awhile and I was very very grateful to have a bottle of bleach on hand. As I found each hidden nook of dirty water, I muttered "I quit" under by breath. Just as I finished mopping the bathroom floor, the front door opened and Sweet Husband came in.
"I'm home" he singsonged happily.
"Really?!" I wailed "You couldn't have come home 20 minutes ago, when the toilet exploded?! I can't believe this! I quit! I'm done! I can't handle this!"

Sweet husband cautiously grabbed the leash from it's place behind the door.
"I'm going to take the dog out" he called as he and the dog darted out the door.

A photo-less post about photos

Alex is constantly trying to sneak off with my camera to take pictures. Sweet Husband came to my rescue by acquiring an older digital camera for Alex. Like magic, my camera lost appeal.

Mission Accomplished.

Unfortunately, I didn't foresee the problems of giving him free access with a camera. After three days with his new camera, Alex had already taken 786 photos and gone through two sets of batteries. Most of these photos involve me looking .... Less than human. Contrary to whatever Alex believes, I do not need documentation of how I look in the morning right after I wake up. I don't need documentation of how dangerous my laundry room has become or the current state of my closet.
I prefer to airbrush my memories instead of keeping photographic evidence.

Oh but it doesn't end there.
Alex discovered that his camera takes video as well.

Apparently he likes documentary style videos. He sets the camera on record and trains it on me as I go about my daily tasks. He's recorded everything from me talking on the phone with my brother to me drowning in laundry. Somehow, the laws of universe dictate that the worse I feel the more he records.
Last week I was nursing the "ICK". My head was floating two feet above my body, and I couldn't summon the energy to do anything other than lay on the couch with glossed over eyes.

"Alex please don't record me."
"Okay" he absently agrees.
"Are you still recording?"
"Yup."

I don't want to demand that he stop. He'll have evidence that I stifled his creativity!

Pajamas and Hips

When Sweet Husband and I were first married, I introduced him to the cottony bliss of men's flannel pajama bottoms. Over the years, my stash of men's flannel pajama bottoms has dispelled and his stash has sprung up. Much to his chagrin, occasionally, I'll borrow a pair of his pajama bottoms when my sleep shorts are MIA.

The two of us were up late on night folding laundry and discussing an upcoming deployment.
"While I'm gone" he started, "...If you want to, you can wear my-"
My heart started speeding up and my insides were starting to feel warm fuzzy.
"My PT shirts." he finished.
Warm fuzzies fled. PT shirts have a course gritty feel to them, definitely in contrast to the soft cottony cloud of flannel pajama pants.
"Your PT shirts?" I repeated woodenly. "Really? I thought you were going to say 'pajama bottoms'. You almost made me melt."
"Well, I'd let you wear my pajamas, but I'm afraid you would stretch them out."
I blinked in surprise. Warm fuzzies sought refuge in Bulgaria.
Genuinely confused, I asked the question that begged asking "How would I stretch them out?"
"Well the red one's are a little tight on me, And well, it's just that your hips are so much wider than mine."
I stared at the love of my life in dumbfounded amazement.
"My hips are not wider than yours." I told him in righteous indignation.
He looked at me skeptically "Are you sure?"

.....

Would you believe it, even after we established my hips are smaller than his, he still didn't offer me the use of his pajama bottoms. *sad face*

A lot can happen in 72 weeks

When this picture was taken I was about 7 weeks pregnant with Spain.

This was taken the day Spain was born. It's 4 am in this picture.

Spain was born at 36 gestation, this is Spain and I now, at 36 weeks post-partum.

Yup, a lot can happen in 72 weeks.