Last night I fell asleep folding the laundry.
(Yes, that’s right, my life is that exciting).
Around 1:30 in the morning I woke up to the distant cry, “I POOPED!” and strained against grogginess to make sense of the context. It felt like the middle of the night, yet I was hearing my son hollering at me from the bathroom upstairs.
Sure enough, he was stranded on the toilet with a dumped load of Number 2, and near hysterics that no one came to wipe his butt.
This morning I asked Bryan why he didn’t wake me up to go to bed, and he laughed. Apparently he called my name several times and physically shook my body, all with no response. And since I’m quite the angry bear when aroused from a deep sleep, he just left me there.
I honestly have no recollection of any of this, yet the other night around 2am a ringing alarm clock next to Ruthie’s bed IN THE NEXT ROOM woke me up.
Whatever. Call me fickle.