I am sitting in the computer room of my parents house hoping beyond all hope that the four screaming mimi's won't figure out that I have left the living room where The Jungle Book is entertaining. I know this makes me sound like less of a super mom, but it is the ugly truth. Yesterday I went to the bathroom, by myself, AND I locked the door. I know this doesn't sound like it should traumatize anyone, but by the time I was finished (I took a magazine :0) two of the children were writing notes and putting them under the door. The first note said, "Phoenix spit on me." The next one just said PoPpY. I assume it meant to say, "me, too!". Then I see little fingers coming under the door. I can hear their little voices at the bottom of the door where the crack is asking if I'm ever coming out. I think to myself, now I understand the lady that stayed in the bathroom for two years. Although I doubt that I would let my bum grow onto the toilet seat.
I know, I know, Someday I'll miss this. REALLY? I'm going to miss this? Come on! Who made up that stupid phrase anyway? Someone who was 80 and had alzheimers? I suppose I should enjoy that my children want to talk to me and I should hope that continues into the dreaded teenage years, but right about now I am looking forward to a sullen 15 year old that doesn't want to talk to me when I am taking care of buisiness.
My friend Craig and his wife have a theory that when you put parents of young children together invariably the conversation will degenerate to poop and I have proven him right once again. At one point I had a brain that functioned, I swear, I did.
