Mother-of-the-Year

The grown-ups (very loosely used, since it does, after all, include my brother The Mooch) in the household came down with what can only be attributed to food poisoning after our rainy labor day garage barbecue (hey, the best laid plans can't be completely foiled by a little rain...) While I might be more willing to credit carbon monoxide poisoning to our illness, as the majority of charcoal produced barbecue smoke poured into our kitchen from the garage door throughout the entire affair, I would assume the small child would be most prone to said poisoning, and thus must toss out that idea altogether.

So the Energizer Bunny, having refused the delicacy commonly known as a hamburger for dinner, remained ever so energetic while any and all caregivers were stuck in the (thankfully three separate) bathrooms throughout the day. Not to be vulgar or anything, but, there is nothing like taking care of a two-year old while requiring to alternatively hurl and shit oneself. Really. You should try it.

Following a desperately long day praying to the porcelain god after doing nothing even vaguely close to deserving such a pleasure, one must make sacrifices. I am sorry to relate to you now that my sacrifice was the safe care and well-being of the Energizer Bunny.

We went to bed before him.

That's right, folks. We plopped him down in bed, gave him some books and blocks, and told him to be good. Tucked ourselves in good and tight and drifted off to dreams of happier days while our child fended for himself in the other room. I hereby nominate myself for Mother-of-the-Year.

You'll be glad to know he's still alive AND the house is still standing.

Please don't tell The Walking Guilt Trip.