It was the night before I was to host a baby shower for my sister-in-law.
Superman had scheduled our tax appointment for that evening. Half an hour before he was supposed to leave he realized that he had misplaced the W2. We tore up the office and file cabinet looking for it. No luck. He called the tax guy and found we could still get our taxes done using the year's worth of pay stubs we had, but couldn't get the money until he had a W2 in his hands. (By the way, did you know it costs $8.50 to get a duplicate W2.)
Anyhow. Superman had just left and I began to change Elaine's diaper. I took it off and then realized the wipes were on the bathroom counter. I dashed to the bathroom, hoping I wouldn't regret leaving a naked baby on the floor. Upon entering the bathroom I saw Val standing on the counter, saying urgently, "Moooom. I pooooooped." Hoping that she meant "I need to poop" instead of "I have already pooped" I swooped her off the counter and landed her in front of the toilet. Too late. She had pooped. Then, as we tried to remove her underwear in the least-messy way possible, the poop fell out and got on her new white sandals.
Cue the bare-bottomed baby, who by this point had probably assumed I had forgotten about her need for a diaper. Elaine toddled in to join us and "help" with the poop situation. Of course this was such an exciting prospect that she peed, which collected in a puddle at her feet, and who doesn't like stomping around in a good puddle? So that's what she did.
So, to recap. My life at approximately 6:50 pm on March 26:
Val (3 years) - squirming on the toilet with poop on her bottom and legs, smearing poop on the seat each time she moved, trying to "help" with vast wads of toilet paper, highly concerned over the unfortunate state of her once-white sandals.
Elaine (1 year) - naked from the waist down, dancing in a puddle of her own pee, delighted to help her big sister with the Putting of Things into the toilet bowl, not particularly concerned about getting poop on her or anywhere else, for that matter.
Me (27 years) - seriously wishing I could take a snapshot of the entire situation and wrap it up with a cute little pink bow and give it to the mother-to-be at tomorrow's baby shower.
Because THAT right THERE is what no one tells you about motherhood. That is, until you experience it yourself and then moms everywhere come out of the woodwork to chuckle and pat you on the back while saying, "Oh me too, honey. Me TOO."