What do you do when you’re doing the doo and you daughter has to go too? It’s a question I tried to answer tonight when Camille tried and failed to make it to the potty — her second accident in as many weeks. She made it to the bathroom with the help of her sister, but didn’t make it to the throne and tinkled on the floor.
Nothin’ I could do ’cause I was downstairs. Do you cut it short to make sure your kid doesn’t come up short?
The problem is I’m home alone with the girls as their mother is off galavanting at the beach and has the nerve to say she’s three sheets to the wind and hasn’t even had dinner yet. (I’ll admit I had a little wine while the girls had their whine.)
Meanwhile, my brother blogger over at Lex Corp. has a free 48 hours as HIS wife heads to the shore with kids. Where’s the fairness in that? I did ask Lex to take one of my kids if he got lonely. That one didn’t sell.
Anyway, I’m home alone with the girls. I slip up because I let my bodily functions get in the way of my daughter’s and I have to clean up the floor.
Tomorrow is the big test because I’ve got them all day. The plan: Wear their little butts out like that babysitter in the Volkswagen commercial and put them in bad at the end of the day so tired they’ll sleep until Susan gets home late Sunday afternoon.
Wish me luck.