So maybe it’s the stories taking over my brain. The blog posts, plotting for my novel, and giving up coffee for the two days I decided to try and get my milk production back up. I have been a little distracted.

In the morning we woke up rushed to get off to a play date. In the bathroom I discovered someone hadn’t flushed the toilet. Flushing the toilet at night is dicey, we don’t want the noise to wake her royal highness. There it sat, a big sopping pile of toilet paper. Yuk.

'I should flush that,' I thought, then the baby started crying. I stopped in my older daughter’s room to bark a few orders.

“Long pants, warm shirt, then brush your hair.”

“Ok, mommy,” she said then began to circle the room. I knew I would have to come back after I dealt with the baby to help her with the shirt, or the hair. Oh, and remember to make sure she brushes her teeth.

The baby is standing up in the crib, reaching out to me. I love that. I feel loved. She stops crying when I pick her up. As soon as I lay her down to change her she starts screaming and kicking her legs. Lately she hates it when I put her down.

I change her, put new clothes on her and am satisfied when she stops crying, again resting on my hip. I have her dressed up so we can make a good impression out and about. Since I started working again, we almost never get out anymore. We enter my daughter’s room and find her fully dressed. So grown up, but are the pants on the right way? I see they are, my heart fills with pride.

“Ok, go brush your hair and teeth, then get your shoes on,” I say as I head in to my room.

I set the baby down, she cries again, then stops when she finds the scale on the floor and crawls on top of it. I dress and head to the bathroom to apply makeup and do hair. Doing hair these days means pulling it back and putting on a sparkly head band. At least I am getting makeup on, that was my goal at New Year’s. If I get makeup on in any form, I feel more like the real person I was before I  became a stay-at-home-mommy.

Suddenly something wet is all over my feet and I hear a loud wet slap and big fat droplets have splashed up my legs. I look down, and horrified, I see that my baby girl, in her pretty denim dress, and pretty pink head wrap, has one hand on the toilet seat to steady herself. She is proudly staring up at me. She has the biggest gummiest smile on her face.

The glob of toilet paper is now all over the floor.

“Ahhh, yuk.” I groan. I lean down and examine her to see how much has gotten on her clothing.

She smiles with her mouth wide open and giggles.

“What, mommy?” my other one calls from the hallway.

“Your sister just threw wet toilet paper all over the floor,” I call back as I turn my baby over and begin washing her hands, inspecting the cuffs of her dress for wetness.

“Why did she do that?” she asks. She has come in and is now watching me rinse her sister off.

“I couldn’t tell you love,” I say. It wasn’t long ago that she was doing the same sorts of things, “You tell me.”