Happy New Year.
Or should it be HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!??
I am completely new to this blogging thing. But as I have been very ambitious this bright, shiny, New Year morning by cleaning and laundering and de-cluttering and making my family very nervous with my sprightliness, a thought occurred to me.
I have been working on this 'book', entitled "I've Got Poop In My Pocket" for quite some time now. But I don't know a darn thing about publishing a book. All I know how to do is write little snippets at a time, as they happen (multiple times a day, if you have children like mine). And since I've been following a select few blogs on a daily basis, I decided, 'HECKFIRE! Why can't I just be a blogger?'
So here it goes. My attempt at blogging or publishing or just brightening your day with the often hilarious, occasionally dramatic, always uplifting tidbits of my life.
I’ve Got Poop In My Pocket
Most employers think that they have heard every excuse in the book as to why an employee is late. I am certain that I was the only person at my particular place of employment who had ever offered, “I’ve got poop in my pocket”, as a tardiness defense.
It was a sunny, Friday morning. I had buckled my 8-month-old daughter, Reilly, in her car seat, packed the day’s necessities, and headed for the babysitter’s house. Half way towards our 10-mile journey, I smelled it.
You just can’t mistake the smell of formula-laced baby poop.
Once we arrived at Barbara’s house, I got Reilly out of her seat, picked up the diaper bag, and walked to Barbara’s front door. Barbara noticed the stench as soon as she opened the door, and casually mentioned, “Reilly, you brought me a present!”
We both laughed, and I handed Reilly over.
As I turned to walk away, I noticed a smear of poop on Reilly’s shorts. This wasn’t your average, everyday, baby bowel movement. This was green, mushy poop, the consistency of finger paint. For a millisecond I wondered how my beautiful baby girl with the stunning blue eyes could produce such vile waste.
It was then that Barbara shrieked, “Ahhhhhhh! Your shirt!”
Not only was poop smeared all over my shirt and my arm, poop covered my pants, almost to the knee.
And yes, there was poop in my pocket.
Lots and lots of it.
And that is how I ended up calling my boss to tell him I would be late because, “I’ve got poop in my pocket.”