Patience was never a strength and at times the girls stretch mine to limits I didn't think I was capable of. Like 20 minutes ago. I was scheduled to make an 11 a.m. phone call and decided to do a quick check before I launched into my 15 minute telecomm (that's code I learned after doing a number of these interview calls, it means they're in between meetings, probably wearing a suit, and I'm in between refereeing fights, probably wearing a hat because I didn't take a shower yet). Max responded quickly, "Playing." It took extra bellowing to reach Madi. And her response? "I don't know what I'm doing." (That's code for: I'm doing something that would upset you greatly Mom.)
Down the stairs I went, with minutes to go before I had to call. I walk into the half-bath to find Madi with soiled shorts around her ankles, a cup of foam, sticky letters in her hands, a few letters stuck on the walls, and poop in the toilet, on the toilet and on the floor. I did a quick clean up of child, of toilet and floor. I was disturbed to find that my Clorox pop-up wipes were nearly dried out.
And I was disturbed to find that when I ran back upstairs, breathlessly dialing the number (it was 11 a.m. and using a calling card can sometimes take an extra minute, and I am nothing if not prompt!), only to reach voicemail.
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