"How well did I wash my hands?"
That was the thought that occurred to me as I nibbled bits of bran muffin from underneath my finger nails and drove my son to day care. How well did I wash my hands? Because, about twenty minutes earlier, I was cleaning poo off his bottom. And his thighs. And his shirt and pants. And his changing pad. And his junk. Oh why is it so hard to get bits of baby poop out of the tiny creases of baby testicles?! It is the worst.
And I washed my hands, but I was also keenly aware that the clock was ticking and I had about 70 minutes to finish up with the Poop-Apocalypse, get a clean and dressed kiddo into the car, and make the 50 minute round trip drive to drop him off and get to work on time. Since breakfast time had been replaced by an early nap wake up and a surprise poo-splosion, I grabbed a bran muffin after cleaning up everything to the minimum level of acceptable hygiene and threw the kiddo and I into the car.
Finally in the medium-chill place of knowing that I was at least on the road and moving towards my goal I started scarfing my muffin down, savoring every crumb, including the ones under my finger nails until it occurred to me that it might not have been wise to both skimp on hand washing time and go after *every* crumb.
Oh well.
It's too late now.
And by too late, I mean both that the poo/crumbs are in my tummy now, and that I am late to work.
