Wednesday, April 22


It's always great coming into work late on a Tuesday morning and the first thing out of your mouth is, "I know that I smell like beer, but I swear I haven't been drinking." There is a lot that is intriguing about that sentence, but the most interesting part of the situation is that my child is the reason that I smell like PBR before I've even had coffee. Please understand that neither Piper nor myself were kickin' back with a brewski while watchin' Sesame Street. 

As it turns out, we were having a rather challenging morning, where I couldn't find an element that was crucial to our day (this time it was my shoes). Usually during this type of frantic search, Piper is doing something productive like testing electrical cords with her mouth or going through the junk drawer, which is basically a life flight to Children's Mercy waiting to happen. I don't think that I can stress the number of times I have begged her to "please, for the love of all that is holy and good, go watch Elmo!" after I have caught her trying to jump off my bed with an iron or something.

I happened to notice that Piper had stopped drawing on her pad of paper and instead decided to draw on her shirt (and face). She was quite proud of herself and equally as pissed when I tried to clean her masterpiece off. But after struggling with a kid that decided her best defense was to go limp, I decided that the shirt would be dirty by the end of the day anyway, so it really didn't matter. Truth be told, it had kinda a cool Jackson Pollack thing going on, so I left it on her. I removed the pen and paper from the situation and was sitting on the bedroom floor trying to "retrace my steps" (thanks Mom), I think that I even put my head on the floor in frustration. Just as I was saying "where the fuuu" I shifted my head slightly to the left, where my eye caught a glimpse of brown leather squished under the dresser. I reached under to free the shoes, with a triumphant "ah ha!" and that's when I heard it.

A squeal of delight that signaled something was about to get majorly f'ed up. There was Piper, running towards me carrying two "empty" cans of PBR. Apparently Daddy had put them in office garbage, you know, the one without a lid. Piper had rummaged through said garbage while I was rummaging through my bedroom. Momentarily, I was a little taken aback by the sight of my daughter double-fisting PBR. I said "oh, no" and tried to grab the cans from her. Little did I realize the extent of her death grip on the PBR cans. A struggle ensued. I pried the cans from her, but as I did I realized that the cans were not, in fact, empty. I realized this as a splash of days-old beer landed on both my shirt and Piper's. We looked at each other in surprise and just as a bit of beer dripped down my face I realized that neither one of us had the time to change.

Now a sane person would have just put everyone in new shirts, but I was running really late and frankly, mornings are already fraught with drama as I try to decided which awful outfit to stuff my fat ass into. Not to mention that Piper insists on putting on her own clothes. Have you ever seen a two-year-old put on clothes? Yeah, well get a lawn chair and settle in, it's gonna be awhile. There was no way we could change and be out of the house in less than 30 minutes. I did what I had to do. I wiped my face, dabbed her shirt and got her shoes on. As I ran over my trash cans leaving the driveway, I thought "well this is going to be funny or DFCS will be waiting for me when I come to pick her up from daycare." Either way, I'm blaming it on my husband.