Is summer over yet?

My dad comes to help out with the kids on Tuesday through Friday.

Yesterday I was rushing around like a crazy person to get Number 3 and 4 to their first swim team practice (ever– yay!).  He asked me if there was any formula mixed up for Number 7.  I told him it was in the fridge.

Number 3 said, “Why don’t you just give him some of your own funeral?”

I wasn’t really listening, and just wanted him to get in the car.

“Mom!  Why don’t you just make your own funeral?” he said, a little louder.

“What are you talking about?” I snapped.

“You know, out of these.”  He circled his pecs with his fingers.  “Out of your boobs.  Make your own funeral?”

“It’s formula, not funeral.  Mom’s boobs are out of service.  Get in the car.”

Practice is in a lake.  The weather so far this year has been cool, and the water is pretty chilly.  Our pool is heated to about 84 degrees, so the kids are spoiled.

I should have warned Number 4 before she jumped in the lake.  But she was so excited she was out on the dock before I knew it.  She’s been begging to be on the swim team since last summer and just couldn’t contain herself.

She went from the happiest kid in the world to the most shocked kid in the world in a matter of seconds.  I felt so bad for her.  She spent the rest of practice crying, and trying to get her little 5-year-old body back into the water, but it was too much for her.

“Mom, the only thing that horrified me was the cold water,” she said when we got home.

Great.  Awesome first-time-on-swim-team experience.

I need desperately to get to the store, so it was cereal for lunch.

Number 4 spilled his entire bowl on the floor first.

Then Number 5 spilled hers.  Her bowl hit just the right spot and shattered.  Rice Krispies can travel very long distances, apparently.

After lunch I took Number 6’s diaper off because half of his food somehow ended up inside the diaper.  I let him roam free for a minute while I went to get a clean one.

I walked into the living room to get him and stepped in shit.

You’re kidding me.

I checked his butt for evidence of poop but there was none.  I slapped the diaper on him, threw him up on the couch, and started cleaning it up when Number 4 walked into the room.

“Mom, do you know what that is?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah, it’s poop.”

“I know.  I did it,” she admitted.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I forgot.”

I looked at her with the “I know you’re lying” look.

“Okay, I just didn’t want to.  I didn’t want you to be mad.”

In an effort to take care of business as quickly as possible, Number 4 ususally pulls down her pants whereever she happens to be when she realizes she has to go, and runs to the bathroom with her pants around her ankles.  So that’s how this lucky piece of poo managed to get on the living room rug.

There was still a hallway, the entryway, the dining room, and the mudroom between her dropping and the toilet.

“Is there any more?” I asked, afraid for the answer.

Well, I guess she wasn’t exaggerating about swim practice.  It had literally scared the shit right out of her.

How many more days until the first day of school?

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