At 8:45 AM, I left the house to run to the store up the road and get a few things, and before I left, I told my husband that at around 9:00 it would be time to take roger to the potty again. I was gone maybe 30, 45 minutes at the most. I came home and my husband looked like he wanted to gouge out his own eye.
Apparently while I was gone, he got to experience a tiny fraction of what I've been dealing with every day. He went to take Roger to go potty, and Roger threw a fit about taking off his pants, and my husband went to try to pull them off of him so that he could stick him on the toilet. Which is when he discovered that Roger neglected to mention that he had pooped in his underwear and apparently my poor husband got his hand covered in this horrible mess because, well, he didn't know. And while all this was going on, Bettie was crying and screaming in the living room, because that's pretty much how it always happens. Of course I felt bad for my husband, but at the same time (and I know he'll read this and probably curse my name for saying it), I couldn't help but allow myself a slight giggle (on the inside, of course, I'm not a bitch) because, well, I was beginning to think my children just saved up all the real FUN (note the sarcasm?) stuff for me, especially for when he isn't even home.
Roger also actually took a nap today--a REAL, true, longer-than-dozing-for-ten-minutes nap, which made my life a whole lot easier, even after Bettie woke up from her short one hour nap. The house was even peaceful...for about half an hour.
However. Then this happened:
2:00 PM. Roger uses the toilet (though it was a minuscule amount of pee, and I know he only forced it out of himself to get Skittles, but whatever). After I handed him his reward, he then looked me in the eye, out of the blue, and informed me, "Mama. Your pretty is all gone."
Fucking figures.
So, he's now on my own personal blacklist and it's a good thing Christmas already passed. Though if he thinks I won't remember this when next Christmas rolls around, he's sadly mistaken.
2:30 PM. Pee and poop in the underwear, there's a huge mess that Roger seems to be enjoying SPLASHING in (just...just shoot me; fucking gross), and my dog won't stop barking at Bettie because, well, why the hell not.
3:30 PM. Successful toilet use, woohoo! Not much happened during this time, which I was quite happy about.
5:00 PM. This is about the time I started to regret trying to cook dinner, because all 3 of my kids were literally screaming at the same time--for quite a while. I also burned my hand because I'm very clearly an idiot and it hurt like hell.
5:30 PM. This is when I realized I wouldn't have dinner ready soon enough for my children who, according to Travis, were "STAAAAARVING, MOM!!!!!" So I made their impatient and ungrateful asses some sandwiches, even though the entire reason the food wasn't ready in time was because THEY were running around like patients in a looney bin. Whatever, it's fine, enjoy your boring sandwiches, you heathens. But when MY delicious Marsala mushroom pork chops, buttered egg noodles, and green beans were done, I ate in peace all by myself.
YEAH RIGHT! That there is what we like to call the "dream sequence" of the story. In reality, I pretty much vacuumed up my dinner while hiding in my bathroom, and I only had a small amount because by then I'd basically lost my appetite. But I will say it was really good, so, at least there's that.
6:15 PM. Successful toilet use--note the time between the last one and this one? That's almost three hours. Which is awesome because there were NO accidents during that time either. I am SO proud!!!
6:30 PM. This is about the time I started running out of patience (though not with Roger, oddly enough he was the easiest one this evening), as well as losing the ability to be clever, so, I'm just gonna state this as plainly as possible: out of beer; send help. Fast.
7:15 PM. Two kids in bed, one left to go, and I'm ready to pass out. Is it Saturday yet? I'd like it to be Saturday.
7:29 PM. I just realized my husband is working this weekend, which means Saturday will be just as hellish as a weekday and I kind of want to vomit now.
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