Just One of Those Half-Hours...

This afternoon was a hoot.

Shortly after I settled our two-year-old girl, feverish since Monday night, onto the couch after she woke from her nap crying for food and drink, I found my four-year-old son sitting behind our swinging kitchen door, crossing his ankles and wearing a guilty expression. This is a sure sign that we're having defecation issues and that immediate action is needed.

I swooped him, protesting as usual that he DID NOT have to go, into the bathroom, where I situated him on the potty with stern instructions to remain there until things were settled, so to speak. Then I returned to the limp girl with the red-rimmed eyes to see what I could do for her.

"I want something to eat, Mommy," she wimpered.

From the bathroom around the corner and down the hall came the decree, "Guess WHAT, Mommy?"

I scurried to the kitchen to fetch a cheese stick for my younger as I hollered to my older, "What, honey?"

Then I opened the refrigerator door, and I'm not sure which happened first. Either: (1) our boy replied, "I made poop, and it's BIG!" or (2) just under 1 1/2 pounds of change came raining down on my head (yes, I weighed it on our food scale after I picked it all up). Wish I had paid more attention when I was on the phone just after lunch and saw my son on a stool messing with the tub of coins we keep on top of the refrigerator...

Breathing deeply to maintain my sanity, I peeled and delivered an orange to the bedridden one and rushed to praise the anal-retentive one only to discover that I would have to add the title "plunging technician" to my growing list of maternal duties, which already included "nurse" and "excretion facilitator."

At least I know that the next time I'm headed to downtown Appleton and need coinage for the parking meter, I can look under the pizzas and salmon filets in the freezer for dimes and nickels.