I have explained to nearly 3yo in no uncertain terms that I don’t like “poo in the underpants”. I have used phrases such as “I hate poo in the underpants”, I have bandied about adjectives like “yucky” and “dirty”, and also nouns like “treats” or “new toys” *long suffering sigh*. I have sat with him – on the bathroom floor, no less – for an hour again this morning, maintaining a mom visage that is “up-vibe and interesting” so I can read and sing the same pages or the same books over and again. And again, no dice. My morning is now in a holding pattern until he does unload in his drawers. I’m not going to bother changing him out of his pajamas just so a different change of clothes will be thrown in the wash 2 minutes after I turn my back. I don’t want to start on some choc-zuccini goodness, only to be stalled during some critical stage where I have raw egg and sticky dough all over my hands and need to fight him for the wipes until one of us is clean. And so the other boys, sensing my vulnerability, hover and pick fights, much like other predators, until they draw blood or the loud ire of their mother.
There is an hour until we have to leave and pick up a friend from summer camp. There is so much that could be achieved in this time – I have my sneakers on, after all – and yet, Husband’s unusually lackadaisical attitude to outside maintenance due to the long and continued presence of roofing contractors – and we are talking sometimes 12hr days! – has permeated indoors, so I may just sit and decry the absence of wifi and make another cup of tea, while I wait on the inevitable *long-suffering sigh*.