My wife comes home tonight after 3+ days away on business. Needless to say there hasn't been much time to attend to much of anything, much less write. For the last three days I've followed the same basic loop:
- Awake at 6:30 to Robert's clarion call: "TwoBert wants out!"
- Spend 14 hours chasing down Robert's line drives and deciphering TwoBert's sentences (which, though darling, remain rife with crippled syntax).
- Crack a Beer of Achievement when the boys are finally squirreled away to bed.
- Pass out on the couch after two swigs.
Tuesday was the first real effing hot day of the summer, and none of us wanted any part of being outside. We just weren't emotionally ready. We were lucky, then, to find the Discovery Channel's Dirty Jobs marathon; I hadn't seen the show before, but now I'm hooked on its ability to pull me into the grossness. There was this one episode with a guy who crawls inside clogged septic tanks and grease traps and I swear I almost horked on the floor right there. It's an awesome show, but with a caveat.
TwoBert is deep in learning the Ways of the Potty. He is also a reincarnated Greek Olympian, because he loves to hang out around the house wearing nothing but a smile and a pair of sandals. Right as one of the episodes was ending, TwoBert dropped a turd on the rug, stepped in it, and walked over to tell me about it. So I spent the next half hour MacGyvering all that poop out of my life with rug cleaner and a toothbrush.
So yeah, Mike, your show is a fun hour. But until you give a few stay-at-home parents a call, you're just shoveling grease.