I came downstairs in my towel because while we've consistently run laundry since kid #3 was born, I don't think any of it at all has been put away. It's all in the living room, unsorted, unmatched, unfolded.
"Hurry, please," begged the husband.
I grabbed clothes and dressed as I walked back through the kitchen to the screaming baby and the whining kid and the hungry other kid.
The big green towel dropped to the linoleum floor.
I helped the lovely husband out the door with one girl.
I packed the dipaer bag.
I bundled the boy and our chaperone, the other girl.
I rushed us out the door to the boy's doctor's appointment.
(He's gained 1.5 pounds in two weeks.)
I catered to the hungry boy.
(How many times a day do I say, "first let's change your diaper and then I'll feed you"?)
I drove home to retrieve the girl's forgotten lunch.
I drove to work to drop off some paperwork.
And to drop off the girl.
I fed the hungry boy.
I went to the grocery store.
I rushed home to feed the hungry baby.
The baby, who had gotten a vaccination, lived up to the doctor's promise.
He was very fussy.
I soothed him in increments and I washed baby paraphernalia in increments.
(Nobody wanted to head into the girls' return, dinner and bedtime with a fussy baby with no clean pacifiers.)
I filled the microwave sterilizer with the pieces and I added the water.
I hurried to soothe the fussing baby.
I put down the sterilizer too quickly.
I spilled water all over the floor, right in the path between the fussy baby and the diapers to which I intended to carry him.
(Ideally, without slipping or falling.)
Conveniently, there was a big green towel right there on the floor.
And now allow me to direct your attention elsewhere: I posted this week in defense of breastmilk at DC Metro Moms, and I contributed a post to my friend Megan's 40 Days of Joy series while she enjoys a little vacation time. (Did you realize that baby G is one month old today?)