The Devil Wears Osh Kosh B'Gosh

My dear husband has been working the bitch shift at work for the last three weeks. By bitch, I mean 3 pm-11pm. So he rolls out of bed around 11 am, chills with us for a bit, hops in the shower around 1 and leaves the house around 2 (he's got quite a drive). I feel like a single mother, and it ain't pretty. By about 5 pm I'm curled up in the fetal position in the corner babbling and staring at shiny pretty objects.

Tate is so freaking TWO. His new thing is grabbing spit out of his mouth and wiping on me. Or my neighbor. Or the UPS dude. Anyone, really. I try to teach my son to treat all people equally and it comes back to bite me in the ass. Just call him Lucifer, Jr. Oh, or Velcro Boy. That's another fun thing. Ever try to walk up the stairs with a basket of laundry in one arm, a 3-month-old in the other, and a 600 lb toddler hanging off your butt screaming "Up! Carryu!" Carryu means "Carry you", which in this case means "Carry me". Yeah, he gets a little confused.

Nora has started rolling over. I think she sees it as a way to escape her brother's clutches. The poor kid will be sprinting by the time she's 5 months. And will someone please tell her to stop losing all her hair?

Thank God for So You Think You Can Dance. Nothing like vegging on the couch, stuffing my face with a bowlful of popcorn, watching girls the size of a strand of my hair cavort around on stage in costumes the size of a piece of Kleenex. Next up is Project Runway, baby! Thank God for DVR. Am I a bad mom for rushing through my 395478th reading of "Slow Down, Thomas" to Tate so I could start watching SYTYCD sooner? I mean, the kid pretty much has it memorized anyway.

Where's my beer?