It’s been a rough week in our house. And by rough week, I mean the ratio of amount of sleep compared to amount of accessible coffee is not in my favor.
Toys scattered everything, dirty dishes in the sink, and I will not confirm nor deny the possible dust bunny in the corner.
S hasn’t slept, she’s naked because we’re potty training, and at this point, I’m pretty sure she was possessed by the devil himself.
I’m breaking every fashion rule imaginable – hot pink sweatpants that I can’t even tell you the last time they were washed, hair in an elastic on the top of my head (I can’t even call it a messy bun), and one of those tank tops with the ‘built in bra’ which everyone knows, does absolutely nothing for boobs anywhere.
Ding Ding Ding.
There goes my doorbell. I slowly make my way over to the door. Slowly because I have a naked toddler screaming at my ankles, breaking multiple sound barriers.
‘Hello sir. Can I help you?’ I say, only opening the door about an inch.
‘I’m the inspector. I hear you have a problem with one of your sinks. Can I come in and take a look?’
No you may not.
Leave now while your ears are still functioning normally.
But of course, I allow him to come in, dust bunnies and all.
I grab the nearest piece of fabric I can find to wrap around my daughter as I pick her up. It happened to be one of my sweaters. I lead him upstairs to the bathroom and try to explain the issue. Whether he could hear me over the pterodactyl screeches coming out of my daughter, I will never actually know.
My son’s bedroom door opens. He comes charging into our very, very, very tiny bathroom.
He has lost his pants. My son is pestering the poor inspector, firing question after question, while this poor man is standing there, trying to ignore the fact that my son is sans pants.
Some days I appear to have it all under control, and my little snowflakes are picture perfect.
I think my sanity has run off and hidden with my son’s missing pants.