I am perfect. Except when I’m not.

We can all agree that there are some days that we just KILL it. We are warriors. We are multi-taskers. We dust all the surfaces, and plan full, hearty meals. We can wear white shirts and not spill on them. Unstoppable, unbreakable, we are #flawless. And then there are the days that I choke on air and sneeze while eating Wheaties. If you’ve never done that before just trust me when I say it’s really bad. Like, real bad. So in honor of these moments, I’m going to share with you the recent ways in which I am #flawless and also the ways in which I am just the worst ever.

1. Did laundry completely. Even folded it from the dryer without waiting so long that we run out of clothes and have to get dressed from the dryer the usual length of time.
2. Took Darcy to the grocery store by myself, dealt with 2 meltdowns, and still got everything on my list.
3. Made those homemade doily Valentines with Darcy and did not lose my shit when she kept ripping them, sticking the stickers on the floor, and generally acting like a wild animal. I was serene and good and understanding mom.
4. I went on my first post-partum run! It was absolutely terrible, but I did it and did not die to death like I wanted to. Counting that one as a win.
5. Took Clark to 4 different MD appointments and did not collapse from anxiety. I mean, it was close, but I survived #meds

Worst ever:
1. I’m playing with Darcy, who is in a super fun mood. She has on these pink boots that she is in LOVE with. She constantly wants to put them on and take them off. She sits down, holds her feet out and says, “Off! Off! Off!” I decide to be funny and snatch them off her feet really fast because she thinks that stuff is funny. When I do, I pull her body towards me, she loses her balance, and smacks her head on the tile floor. Hard. I am a jerk.
2. While I’m facebooking on my phone, Darcy jumps on Clark and scratches his face, drawing blood. He still has the scab and I feel terrible because I am that distracted mom who is on the phone while her kid gets murdered in front of her face.
3. Well, this one involves a story…
After Darcy goes to bed, I generally retreat to the bathroom and take a nice long bath where I pretend to have zero responsibilities and google pressing matters like, “How tall was Marie Antoinette’s hair?” It’s a special time, y’all. Ben, however, has been studying like a mofo for his FE exam. This exam is basically his engineering license and enables him to work as an engineering intern when he graduates. Kinda important, and once Darcy goes to bed, Ben pops on his noise-cancelling headphones and hits the books. So, if Clark has needs (so dang needy) while I take my bath, Ben is occupied studying. SO, I nurse Clark to sleep, and I bring him in the rock and play into the bathroom with me. Cue, relaxation. Except Clark (needy booger), is not having it this night. Fussing, fussing, fussing. Totally killing the serene ambience I’m going for. I try to pacify him. He gags on the pacifier like it is 47 inches long and double-dipped in poison. I decide to just pull him into the bath with me because he loves a bath. It works! He’s happy, looking around, tra-la-la. I mean, I have to keep him from drowning, so my googling important things and general relaxing is kaput, but it’s a pretty sweet time. He makes these hilarious faces. Then he turns red. And KABLOOEY! The biggest poo of his life right in the bathwater–the bathwater I’m sitting in, naked. I screech, hit the drain, and quickly stand up with Clark. We have to vacate this warzone immediately. I mean, it’s basically a biohazard. I step out of the bathtub, immediately lose my balance, and slip. I manage to catch myself, but by doing so, I pull a muscle in my groin and apparently I clutch Clark’s belly too tightly. He responds to this assault by vomiting everywhere and screaming. Ugh, this is just the worst. “Ben!! HELP!,” I whisper-scream. Darcy is asleep. I do not want to make this worse by waking the beast. But Clark is already screaming so I join him and yell, “BEN! COME HELP ME NOW!!,” But you see, Ben has those noise-cancelling headphones on. He does not hear me practically drowning in Clark’s various bodily fluids, nor does he hear Clark screaming at his mother’s absolute failure. I wrap Clark in a towel and run out to the table where Ben is working. You should have seen his face. Wife, naked and covered in questionable fluids, thrusting a screaming, towel-wrapped baby into his hands. “Just. Take. Him. I’ll be back in a minute.” To his credit, Ben didn’t say anything at all other than, “Oookay.” I limped away and tried to reclaim my dignity of which is practically nonexistent at this point.

Lort, halp me. Send your angels to watch my kids when I am distracted and facebooking. Allow Clark to control his bowels when we are bathing together. Let me be serene-good-understanding-mom because I like her. Not sneezing-while-chewing-Wheaties-mom. She’s just sad.

So, let me hear it. Tell me about your ‘not funny at the time, but funny later’ stories! It makes me feel better when you are also the worst ever because I am not the bigger person who feels bad for you. I am the person who will laugh at your mistakes and let you laugh at mine. Laughter is everything, y’all. Don’t take everything so seriously. Love to all.

Why the internet is stoopid

And airing out a diaper rash is a bad idea found on the internet

Stop reading now if you aren’t into reading about potty stuff. Just stop and wait for a post that details the other parts of my life. If you’re game to read on…

Darcy came back from the beach with a pretty horrific diaper rash. To be fair, she arrived at the beach with the start of one, but it only got worse with sand, wet bathing suits, and the heat. I was trying everything; A&D ointment, Desitin, a concoction of an anti-fungal, Desitin, and Aquaphor. Nope. This rash wasn’t budging and poor baby D was uncomfortably tugging at all of her diapers. Now, if you ever even Google anything about diaper rashes, “they” tell you that you should simply “let it air out.” This basically means letting your un-housebroken toddler run around naked and hope for the best. After exhausting all of my ointments, powders, and creams I decided to give it a try.

Ben was out of town for a wedding (how convenient for him), and I had the Darce-bird all to myself for all of Saturday. The day started off innocently enough. We went to return some maternity clothes at Old Navy, we went to Bed, Bath, and Beyond. We went to eat lunch at a cute little Italian café where Darcy refused the food and stared directly at an older couple for the entirety of the lunch date. Not awkward at all, Darcy. We went to Trader Joes for groceries—insert heart emoji—I freaking love that store. Then, we went home, fed Darcy a lunch she deemed worthy (Easymac-whatever, Darcy) changed a poopy diaper (this is important), and put the Darcy to bed. When she woke up, I had decided it would be naked time. This rash was out of hand, and she had already pooped, so the un-diapered Darcy show was a safer option now.

About an hour and a half later, she woke up laughing and with a heavy, heavy diaper. Perfect! She’d peed recently. It should be safe. I took off her diaper and brought her to the living room. I turned around to put up the baby gate to the back hallway, and when I turned back around, she was gleefully splashing in a puddle of her own urine. Awesome. I grabbed her and took her to the bathroom to clean her up, pulled out the Clorox wipes and thought, “Well, we’re probably ok now.”  Within 15 minutes she peed the floor again. What in tarnation? How often does someone pee? I mean I’m pregnant, so I totally get a bye on the every 15-minute thing, but seriously? So, I cleaned her up again and we moved to our outside porch. Safer this way. Hotter this way, too. Kind of a pick your poison thing, and I was over wiping up pee.

Darcy is such an adorable exhibitionist. She was toddling around like the emperor who lost his clothes. I definitely sent a booty picture to her daddy. She walked over to the ottoman of one of our outside chairs, looked at me and giggled, squatted and shot out three poop balls in a span of about 5 seconds. Now, I am a nurse. I have seen patients’ chests’ cracked open at bedside, I have been inside OR rooms, I have cleaned up all kinds of poop, but I have never seen poop balls fly out of a tiny booty at that velocity in my life. It took me a minute to get my wits about me. In that minute Darcy straightened up and firmly planted one of her chubby feet right in IT.

*Mental scream*

I finally snap into action and grab her, booty facing out, foot firmly held at a distance, and carry her football style into the bathroom for a quick scrub up. Inwardly I was thinking, “How do people DO this?! It’s only been like 45-” looks at clock-“30 minutes?!” After a very quick scrub up, I grab paper towels and head back out to the porch to clean IT up. But it’s gone. The poop balls have disappeared. No. Oh God, please no. NO! I hear Libby smacking her lips from somewhere behind me, and my suspicions are immediately confirmed. Libby ate the freaking poop. What fresh hell is this? I’m not even sure which small creature is more disgusting. The pee-puddle-splasher/poop-ball-shooter, or the poop-ball-eater. At this point, I was done. If Desitin could not fix this rash, then Darcy could just keep it forever. Sorry, not sorry. Diaper back on baby. This diaper stayed dry until bedtime, by the way. Imagine that *eyeroll*

The moral of the story is that the people on the world wide web are idiots. Do not follow the crunchy, holistic, craptastic (see what I did there?) advice “they” spout on internet forums. They are idiots, and obviously have investments in the Clorox wipe business. Darcy’s butt is perfect now, and basically all I did was change diaper brands, and slather it with every cream known to man, including the dangerous and awful Talc-containing power. OoOoOo-arrest me now. May your parenting endeavors leave you with great stories and funny memories. And may you have dog-breath freshening treats on hand. Until next time, love to all.