Husband is upstairs giving the girls a bath. In the last ten minutes I have heard him say: “No. Stop pouring water on her. Quit it she can’t breathe. Stop splashing water on the floor. You are flooding the bathroom. Get that toy out of your privates. Don’t put it in hers either.”
Whenever I am feeling the urge to have a third child, I am just going to replay these words over and over in my head. I should probably make an audio recording next bath night and donate it to the educational library at Worth The Wait
It’s that moment when you are sweeping the floor, attempt to brush up a large black fuzzy piece of lint into the dustpan, and it starts Crawling. Across. The. Floor. Gross I don’t want to sweep this thing up. Why does this sh** always happen when Husband is out of town?