Boy was I fired up today.
The baby managed to completely go through four outfits today, including one, with a Breaking Wind precursor in a bank parking lot. Not the back lot, either. The front We Shouldn’t Park Here, It’s A Fire Lane lot. You know, the lot you make when you’re Live Parking.....only to come out and find not your spouse on camera, with the security team watching her intently. They are watching her change the baby, stripping her naked in the process, throwing bits of baby poop on the ground atop the diaper already resting there.
Right by the front tire.
It’s not as though I was unaware of the security camera - anyone who still uses an actual bank building knows that it’s littered with cameras.
ps. None of the angles make my butt look good. I’m pretty sure my arms looked fat too.
The dog has driven me nuts, ingesting not one, but two diapers she ripped out of the trash; this leads to some Serious Intestinal Ickiness. Excessive, one might say. With all that going on, dinner to whip together, laundry that arrived out of no where - I was totally caught up! two kids sporting snarky 'tudes, I truly thought I’d had a bad day.
That is, until I called Trish.
Me: “I’ve had the day from hell. It’s filled with poop.”
Trish: “I need to call you back after I shave Mark’s head.”
Me: (add a couple of snorts) “...shave his head? Why”
Trish: “Can I tell you when I call you back?” (snicker)
Me: “No! I need to know now!”
Trish: “He set his hair on fire”. More laughing.
Me: “Shut the front door!”
Trish: “I’ve got to go shave it. I’ll call you back.”
Now, I should say, Mark is a welder, so evidently (and this I did not know) stuff catches on fire all the time. Due to all the layers, often it goes mostly unnoticed until too late. Shoe laces. Gloves. Hats. She mentioned that several times he’s come home missing half his pants.
Half. His. Pants.
Right. The hair....while welding, a hot piece of metal (snicker snicker snort) landed on the headband strappy thing of his welding shield. That set the headband on fire. Not, mind, that he noticed. With sparks and bits of flame going every which way, I suppose one could mistake their hair with any other flying flamishy bit.
Apparently, it wasn’t until it started to smell of burnt hair did he make the connection.
Obviously, since I have the above facts, she called me back, which is a great thing, as I might have thrown all the kids (two with attitude, one blowing Surprise Poop every five minutes and the gassy dog) into the car, driven over to her house, and demanded to know the circumstances.
This all leads me to one very important conclusion:
I’d rather be all fired up, than on fire.