Deuce.

Day 41 of my freedom, day 4 on the job. I was greeted by an unpleasant surprise in my living room: poopy explosion #2 (please see post below from my first day on the job, for reference) this time, of the doggy variety. Not sure if it was Schatzi or George, but it had clearly happened during the night, as most of it was dry-crusted to the floor. mmmmhhhhhmmmmm.

I get to the house and the family decides to throw me a wild card: potty training has been brought to a whole new level and we're going entirely sans-diapers! (I added the exclamation point so as to appropriately communicate my extreme excitement!!!!) Wow. Little Bit has a delightful way of announcing she has peed...please note here the use of past tense. As in, I can sit her on the toilet (to no avail) and then five minutes later she's standing in a puddle- and not the kind with tadpoles, mind you.

...Never thought I'd miss poopy diapers, but poopy pants have changed me in the worst way. I mean, it wasn't quite on a Chernobyl level, but some sort of meltdown happened. Seriously, I don't get paid enough to deal with this shit (pun intended). Truly amazing how much waste a 22 pound child can create.

Finally got the girls cleaned up and packed up for a walk to Town Lake. Because the Universe loves a good joke (and also because birds are gross) a pigeon shat on the stroller, which landed squarely on Little Bit's shoe (as an aside: absolutely incredible a bird's ability to hit a small, moving target...I mean, of aaaalllll the cars driving down the four lanes of Barton Springs Road *we* get bombed on the sidewalk in a tiny stroller) and before I could grab a tissue from the diaper bag (no longer an accurate name, now I think of it) she's put her finger in the poo, and proceeded to lick it off.

Ugh. I hate that shit.