Bun is being held hostage in the high chair. It's sad really. But I'm not about to venture out into the bitter cold to buy a carpet shampooer. I'm sure that's what would happen if I set him free.
The baby is being held hostage in the walker. It's locked so he can't get far.
Gabbers is being harassed every three minutes by, "Are you feeling okay? Do you need to use the bathroom?"
Me? What am I doing? Other than blogging, I'm currently washing my eleventy-fourth load of puked-on and pooped-on laundry and figuring out a way to make a completely plastic living area where you could take a squeegee and slide all the poop and puke right out the door and then sanitize the house with wipes. Because wipes are happy. They ensure cleanliness. I like wipes.
Danny and Pookie? Oh, they're on their way to the Pediatric Ophthalmologist another state away for Pookie's follow up from his eye surgery.
And my period started. But that's good news. Because I'm not sure I could handle being pregnant today. It also means I can take a motrin and not worry about harming a potential fetus. I've been up since 4:15 a.m. So, this post probably doesn't make a lot of sense. Or it's offensive. Or both. I may just delete it later.