There is poo on my shoe.

I feel like the scatological knock-off of Dr. Suess. And yes, I know I’ve written much about poo as of late–the nephew swirls it, it’s now on my shoe–but for all of my friends with kids, consider this payback for all of the times you talked about poo and I had nothing with which to retaliate. Now I do.

Back to poo on my shoe. It’s on the top of my shoe, not something misadvertently stepped in. To make matters worse, my shoes and socks are soggy from walking dogs in the rain and my voice is hoarse from yelling things like “Put down that deer leg!” and “Do not maul your sister!” and “Leave that stick here! We have plenty of your sticks at the house.” It’s the kind of day where shoe poo seems…anticlimactic? A given? Par for the course? Lets just go with all of the above and be done with it.

Perhaps this isn’t so much about poo (in truth, it was an accidental pooing) as it is about boundaries. I’m writing this with Eleanor in the chair next to me and Beatrice slumped over my foot on the floor. I feel like a stay-at-home mum with two toddlers, neither of which wants to play independently in the other room. I need some me time, not monitoring-the-dogs-so-they-don’t-kill-one-another-and-eat-more-of-the-jade-plant time.

Ever feel like you should be part of one of those viral email jokes about things the dog ate, licked, or pooed on? That is me, far more often than I care to admit. The kindest thing you could get me for Groundhog Day would be a lifetime supply of Mutt Mitts and a bottle of something potent. As for me, I’m swearing off open-toe shoes and flip-flops for all eternity.