An unfiltered fire hose of flaming condemnation

Commode conversation

Yesterday Leta started playing peekaboo with me, lifting up a blanket, hiding her face, and then jerking it down to reveal her smile. We played it seven or eight times before I had to get up and call Jon to tell him the news. The baby! Playing peekaboo! BY HERSELF! CALL HARVARD.

So I picked up the baby, grabbed the phone and headed to the bathroom. I set Leta on the floor where I could see her playing with my deodorant, and then I called Jon.

“Jon, you are not going to believe this.”

“Believe what? Wait a minute,” he said. “Are you doing what I think you’re doing.”

“What, you mean peeing?”

“Yes, that.”

“I’m multi-tasking. That’s what mother’s do,” I explained.

“I don’t really want to know that specific part of your multi-tasking experience.”

“Give me a break. Beth and I do this all the time. And according to Beth there is no better place to talk on the phone, a place so warm and quiet.”

“Heather.”

“Jon.”

“I can hear it.”

“That’s the thing about pee, Jon. It can be heard. Anyway, I don’t have time to use the bathroom and make a phone call. There are only so many minutes in a day.”

Later in the afternoon I called Beth to see how she was doing and I could hear her voice echoing off the walls. “Are you in the bathroom?” I asked.

“Of course!”

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Heather B. Armstrong

Hi. I’m Heather B. Armstrong, and this used to be called mommy blogging. But then they started calling it Influencer Marketing: hashtag ad, hashtag sponsored, hashtag you know you want me to slap your product on my kid and exploit her for millions and millions of dollars. That’s how this shit works. Now? Well… sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

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