For some reason today is climb on mommy day. I can't put the babies down, I can't walk away and if I have one the other must get up there too. I shouldn't complain because they do love me, I think. I can sense it in there between the hits, smacks and head butts. But so goes life with boys.
Back to the bottom of the baby dogpile. I'm under there trying to not get hurt or let one of them get hurt when I find myself wondering first, why am I wearing a white shirt, and secondly, why do I even own any. It's a good day when I don't have a coating of green boogers, slobber and various remnants of food on me, and that's not necessarily from the babies. Boys are gross.
Short and to the point. They are walking, talking messes, with various bodily fluids and sounds emanating from different places at random times. And let me tell you: those sounds are hysterical - even to a baby boy. One of the older boys passes gas and the babies laugh at it! And we don't refer to it as likely as I just did, no, it is just plain called a fart. But I stray...
So being surrounded by four of these little guys, I cannot grasp why I thought it would be a good idea to purchase white shirts. Until my boys have gotten to the point where they are not drooling, getting snot everywhere and wiping Cheetos powder on me (please God let this happen at some point!) I think a base color for me in my wardrobe will have to be charcoal grey or black. Wait, unless we have pancakes...then there's the powdered sugar....ok, never mind. I'm just screwed. So if you run into me in public and I have a child sized orange handprint on my butt, green boogers dried on my sleeve and drool spots on my shoulder, just smile. It's nothing new in my life testosterone filled life.
I would love you forever. No joke, forever.
Until next time!
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