Fuck You, Chicken Skin Handbag.
When my second womb raider was born I was delighted to find out I had a little boy. The midwife pulled him out (with some help from The Husband) and spread his little legs right over my face so I could see what flavour we got. So the first view of my little baby boy was of his junk.
It took me a good few months before I was confident in how to clean his little package, because I was so used to a girl and this was bit….different. People say that cleaning little boys is easier than cleaning girls, but I think I disagree. This morning my little darling decided to take a massive crap in the corner right before the daycare drop off. He usually hides behind the curtains for some privacy, but the smell is a dead giveaway.
I raced him down the hallway and tried to keep his shoes and pants on as I tackled the poonami. Maybe it was the extra cumin in the pumpkin soup from yesterday, but this poo was extremely discouraging. I instantly regretted my decision to try and keep his shoes and pants on, but it was too late to change my mind as his little hands were diving towards the region of his chicken skin handbag. I had to act fast!
Now, when faced with a shitty sack of beans, what is one to do? What is the first step? Do you grab the frank and start wiping downwards, or do you somehow swoosh the wipe around the general vicinity of the man fruits without grabbing the frank? I still don’t know. What’s the protocol? I feel like I should have worked it out by now, but once in a while I’ll be thrown completely off my game.
Fuck You, chicken skin handbag for confusing the hell out of me this morning. The varying temperature of the room wasn’t helping as you shrunk up and down like a yo-yo confusing me even further. Fuck your secret crevices that hide poo and fuck your origami like arrangement that changes every time I have to go to battle.
Chicken Skin Handbag = 1
Me = 0