I'm up to my boobs in Barbie's and boogers. I thought I'd gotten through the worst, most exhausting part of parenting (and if such a magical place existed it would be populated with rainbow unicorns and tinklingly sweet apple juice rivers) but, alas, I hoped in vain.
No such luck. I am mired in demanding, nose-picking, genital scratching, MOM!-I'm thirsty-get-me-a-drink (at 4 AM) people who live on nothing but Cheerios and Cheese-String. And to add insult to injury, I have a MOM!-I-need-a-big-envelope-RIGHT-NOW-and-we-only-have-small-ones (at 11 PM) stropy teenager on my hands.
But I suppose it could be worse.
Somebody could have diarrhea.