the other, other one wherein I question my life choices.

What do you do when your children are merrily playing *together* in the bath and one of them decides, hey I’ve really got to take a dump and I think I’ll just do that right now. In the tub. Right next to my sister. And our collection of rubber ducks?

Did you poop in my tub? Did. You. Poop. In my tub?
Did you poop in my tub? Did. You. Poop. In my tub?

A) First stand there and stare in utter disbelief, questioning many of the decisions you’ve made which brought you to this point.

B) Start hollering about how your children need to evacuate the tub without touching anything, fully expecting them to levitate above the bath time abomination and not spread poop juice around the house.

C) Begin draining the tub, hoping the flow of the water will somehow degrade the diameter of that awful mess, much like the Colorado River carved the Grand Canyon.

D) Get the kids out and just clean the damn tub with scalding water, bleach, and tears before making your kids take a stand-up, second bath before bed.

Should you find yourself in such a  situation, I would avoid choices A through C as they will lead you no closer to eradicating the offending matter. Not that I would know from first trying those choices or anything.

I mean, clearly, choice D is how one gets this whole thing taken care of in a timely manner.

What? Stop looking at me like you don’t believe me.

A solid, 34-year streak of not having to deal with fecal matter in bodies of water has ended. Let’s celebrate by drinking wine and eating baked goods after taking a shower so hot every window in the house fogs over. And burning those *brand new* yoga pants we were wearing.

This is why we can’t have nice things like bathtubs and cotton workout clothes.

Your Ever Faithful Duchess of Doo,

Mrs SmartyPants

A Dark Place

I am the type of person who always wants the believe in the good in other people. I have been bitten by that hard many times in my life, but I continue to believe it. But at the same time finding out that Baby Tyler’s mother was responsible for his murder is one of those things that tries that piece of me in a way that is hard to recover from.

As a human we all have our dark moments, but it has to be one of the darkest places a person can go to be able to look at their own child and be able to beat them with such force, so often that their little life slips from them.

My gut reaction to hearing his mother had done this was tears. Tears that would not stop all day today. They caught my breath and surprised me. I cannot fathom that the last moments of that poor baby’s short life-one that had not had enough time to develop a callous, one that didn’t have time to become jaded-were spent scared and afraid of the person he loved the most in this world. A person he trusted.

And I can’t fathom just how dark of a place his mother could have been in to watch his fear, pain and suffering without being able to have one joyful memory call her back and make it stop.

I heard many people say they weren’t surprised to hear today’s news. That the Casey Anthonies of this world have become so much a part of our American psyche that they knew his mother was responsible before she was arrested today. What a sad mark upon the face of this world that is. I don’t blame them though, and they were right.

But as a mother it is so far from my comprehension and belief in people to be able to fathom that a person is capable of murdering their own child. And so many times this has happened lately. It tries a person’s resolve, and it is haunting.