The things we do for love

February is already gone. When did that happen? It's been a busy few weeks. A trip to Charlotte, a hideous infection, caring for children with their own hideous infections and trying very, very hard not to roll my eyes too much while my husband and son snipe at each other. Cub scout awards, dance recitals where the Frozen soundtrack is playing for the eleventy-billionth time. Ah, bliss. Right?!

It's been fun. Luckily my husband redeemed himself last night for sulking so much lately about the above-mentioned sniping. It involved running around, singing, "I Love Rock & Roll" and "Pour Some Sugar on Me" in his native Indian accent (if you've ever met my husband, he sounds like he's from Midwestern United States). While washing dishes. Without me having to ask. It's the little things, right?

But I earned my keep. You don't want to know how, but I'm going to tell you because somebody's got to hear it and you're the lucky winner. This is too much information, so if you're grossed out by kid poop stories, stop reading. If you're not, by all means, read on.

So...my husband and I were sitting at the table. Evelyn goes skipping off to the bathroom yelling that she's got to poop. Love it how much they share. Anyway. after a few minutes I hear, "Mommy, help!" I'm thinking I'll have to go pick up a big mess. But it was actually worse.

Have you ever helped "clean out" a constipated five year old who is crying because her bum hurts? No? Well, you are missing out. On feeling like you need a long, boiling hot shower. She didn't like it, either. Luckily there were no trips to the ER. But holy mother of enemas, there are some parts of being a parent I could do without, bodily by-products being primary.

I'm sure I will look back on this and snicker. I already am. Mostly because these things tend to happen at fortuitous moments, such as just after I'd said, "It's nice to actually sit down and talk to you," like I did to my husband last night.

Ah, the things we do for love.