Reason #563 That This Mom Needed A Long, Hot Shower

Yesterday I wasn't keeping track of time. Suddenly I realized it was time to pick up the girls, so I went into my Keystone Cops routine, running this way and that, bumping into things, getting The Boy into motion, dragging him from his activity and barking orders: "Get your shoes and some socks--quick! We're going to be late!"

He couldn't find socks very quickly, then discovered that his shoes were soggy from stepping in a puddle. "I'll get a pair from the garage," he said.

"That's fine. Just get your coat on. Come on! Comeoncomeoncomeon, we've got to get in motion. Can you hurry?"

"I have to get my shoes on!"

"We need to, well, I just--tell you what. You just grab your shoes, and I'll scoop you up and carry you to the car."

He liked this idea, grabbed his shoes, and I leaned down to let him sort of climb on. He's getting quite big and too heavy to carry comfortably. "You're going to have to really hold on," I explained, "because you're getting big enough I can't hold you on my own. My arms aren't strong enough."

"Okay," he said, wrapping his arms around my neck. He was still holding the shoes. I managed to get through the garage door with a purse dangling from one shoulder and The Boy holding on like a monkey, his shoes brushing against the back of my hair.

That's funny, I thought as I pulled the garage door shut. The trash can lids were shut, but I could still smell the faint odor of dog doo. The kids pick it up in plastic grocery bags, tie them shut and dispose of them in the trash bins, so I can smell it slightly if the lids are flipped open. But the lids were shut. This just flashed through my head as I continued the manic race to make up for lost time picking up the girls.

We got in the car. I still smelled doo.

That's when I realized it.

"Did you step in dog doo when you were raking leaves yesterday in the back yard?"

"Oh," he replied. "Yes, I did."

"Were you wearing those shoes?"

"Yes, I was."

"I thought so."

No time to go back. No time for a shoe exchange. No time for a shower.

I had to drive the long commute leaning forward toward the steering wheel, looking like a 92-year-old near-sighted driver, to keep the doo off the head rest.