So many nights end like this, when I was supposed to run one stinking errand that I ultimately forgot. Sometimes it’s picking up Dwight’s psycho doggie meds, sometimes it’s a forgotten loaf of bread or gallon of milk, and then there’s nights like this — when my choices have predestined me to yet another night of angst and no sleep.
We have one boy who sleeps in underpants. Another who still needs the pull-up. And last night I used the very last pull-up, which meant I had to make a run to the store for more today while I was work. Which, of course, I forgot to do.
By the time I got everyone home and fed, the skies opened up and a horribly misplaced February thunderstorm rolled in. The boys whimpered. Then they cried. Then they clung to me with the force of mutant spider monkeys armed with duct tape. And I realized that there wasn’t a single pull-up in the entire house.
I peeled the boys off me at bedtime with lots of snuggles and promises that I’d be right outside the door. I bribed my way out of there by turning on an extra night light and letting them sleep in the same bed.
Think of me at 3:30am, when one of them will absolutely have peed on the other. I will be cleaning and consoling little boys, changing sheets, and cursing El Nino for bringing a February thunderstorm that made a forgotten trip to the store that much worse.