Thursday, November 18, 2010

Thursday Strikes Again.

If I didn't already believe that Thursday was conspiring to kill me slowly, I would for sure after today.

(It really works best if you picture me seething and shaking my hand in the air.)

The day started out promisingly enough, as Thursdays are wont to do.
They are sneaky like that.

Derek slept in late, probably because he expended a lot of energy having a meltdown before bed last night. He's normally a pretty low-key kid, but the combination of an early wake-up, no nap, and a late night at Puggles was more than he could handle.
He was so upset when we told him there was no time for a book before bed that his crying rendered him unable to spit the toothpaste out of his mouth while having his teeth brushed.
Life is rough.
So he was told that his outburst had cost him his morning show.

And if you're a three year old boy, and the first thing you think about upon arising is getting your fix of the Cat in the Hat, this is a big deal.

Anyway, he slept in until 15 minutes before he was due at Mother's Day Out, so he didn't have much time to complain.
I quickly lulled him into complacency by shoving a pop tart in his mouth as I dragged him across the street.

Mama needs a new pair of shoes, buddy, and it's my shopping day.

Then I was off for a pleasant few hours of shopping at the nearby outlet mall. 

Like I said about Thursday: Starts off nice, goes downhill fast.

I picked Derek up, and headed home for naptime.
After about an hour, I could still hear him playing in his bed. I didn't want a repeat of the whole fall-asleep-right-before-I-have-to-wake-him scenario, so I went into his room to let him play quietly with some books.

I went in.
I sat on the edge of his bed.
He gave me a hug.
I sniffed.
Something smelled.
Not a good smell.
Kind of poopy.
I asked him, and I quote: "Derek, have you been making stinky toots?"
He smiled at me and said "Yes."
I felt relieved.
Then he says, and I quote: "And my bottom was itchy, so I put my hands down there and scratched it."
Then I peeled those little hands off of my shirt, and very cautiously raised them to my nose.

I have no words.
Other than that his little grubby fingers that were all over me and my clothes, and they smelled like butt.
Poop, to be exact.

Then I ran screaming out of the room and dove fully clothed into a bath of sanitizer.

Not really, but close.

I had to take away his "aminals" who were smelling like his hands, and decontaminate his bed.
Thursday was rearing it's ugly head.
Of course, it was time to go pick up Alex, so I had no time to do the laundry right then. But I could look forward to it later, because that boy does nothing without those aminals, least of all sleep.

We picked up Alex. It was uneventful, thank goodness.
We went to dance class.
I sat on a grubby old couch and tried to keep Derek occupied for an hour. He just wanted to touch my face a lot.
All I could think about was what might be lurking still under his fingernails.

After dance class, I grabbed some McDonald's on the way home.

I've never clicked on that "Click here and you'll never eat McDonald's Again" link on Facebook, so I'll just continue to assume that eventually their little bodies will digest their dinner. Whatever it is.

Dance class is about 3 miles from our house.
Aaaaaaaaaaand it took 45 minutes to get home.
Broken Railroad crossing lights and barriers.

Finally home.
It's 5:45.

1 hour and 15 minutes til lights out.
Just enough time to finish feeding bottomless pits, throw load of bedding and aminals in the wash, hate my procrastinating self when I realize the dryer is full of clothes waiting to be folded, get even more angry when I remember that it's a load full of socks that I have to match, defrost meat to make dinner for me and Josh, wish he were home, help Alex with her homework, give baths, read books, put kids to bed.


Josh comes home. We eat dinner. I rant on my blog and realize that if you don't count the whole anal scratching incident and the drive home from dance at an average of 3mph, it really wasn't too terrible. 

So sorry about the complaints. 


Erin said...

I'm laughing too much at your 3 yr old potty training boy to make any other comments right now. I hope you spruced up before Josh arrived home.

Taylor said...

Good News! Next Thursday is Thanksgiving!
Does Thanksgiving hate you?
I submit it does not.

Joyce said...

So are you cooking Thanksgiving dinner? Because that happens to fall on a Thursday.

Christina said...

Oh my goodness! This is kind of scary, but my Thursday last week was kind of bad...makes me think I'd better watch out for a pattern.
I don't have words for your poopy fingers scene...only I'm sorry. We've had some poo related incidents here and it really can't ever be a good thing, can it? Ick.