So I kind of make some sort of effort not to dwell on super gross things on the blog.
But when you have three children under four, life is so unrelentingly yuck-filled that it sometimes seems impossible to write about motherhood on a weekly basis without getting into some of the job's gorier aspects.
With that being said, I am here to tell you that we here at Short Fat Dictator headquarters have spent the week in the grip of a massive all-family diarrhea outbreak.
I'll take a brief pause for those of you wise folks who wish to stop reading at this time.
For those of you that remain: First of all, it might seriously time to look into a hobby. Second of all, I promise to keep the details of our recent epidemic as un-detailed as humanly possible.
Suffice it to say that diarrhea has taken over our home entirely. It is all we think about. It is all we talk about. I have uttered the sentence,
"Oh my God, is that poop?"
more times in the last three days than I ever imagined I would over the course of a lifetime.
Diarrhea in all its personified glory has become a sixth member of our household. Poor Snoodie has been suffering the worst and has gotten fairly vocal on the subject.
Each butt-clutching trip down the hallway towards the potty now involves the angrily shouted phrase,
"I don't want anymore of you the diarrhea!!"
Truly the only positive thing I can think of to say about the week is that all but one of the victims of this devilish plague is potty trained. In order to avoid discussing this at any length I will instead provide you with this simple formula:
Diarrhea + Diapers = Soul Crushingly Unimaginable Horror
Yesterday I foolishly allowed myself to believe that the disease might have finally run its course. After an incident-free overnight and a potty trip-free morning, I decided it was time to head out to the local playspace for some fun and lunch anywhere other than our house of pestilence.
Things seemed fine until about 20 minutes after our meal when the Snood shouted down from the apex of the tubing:
The looks you receive when your child delivers this line in a crowded fast food establishment are not kindly, let me tell you. I gathered up the children in a whirlwind and sped for the minivan under the withering glares of french-fry cramming diners.
So, we're back to sitting at home and stuffing ourselves with toast, bananas, rice, and any other "binding" food you can possibly think of.
Which is not so bad really. It's not like we're welcome back at the playspace anyway...