The little things

When I was a little kid, I remember reading an article about how much energy little kids have. The author tried to mimic every move that a toddler made during the course of a full day. By noon, I believe, the author was worn out and couldn't continue. While I certainly remember thinking the article was interesting, I didn't give it much thought. After the past two days, though, I'm remembering that article more than ever.

For a parent, I'm not old and I'm not young — I'm 29 — but I keep having the thought that I'm way too old for this. Tuesdays are Stacey's long days, which means I get up with Connor and I put him to bed. I'm with him all day, which is fine, it's just tiring. (It's probably worse for Stacey, though, since she doesn't see Connor from Monday night until Wednesday night...she's tired and depressed.) After two straight days of being on our own (the house is still standing, thank you) I'm pooped. I almost fell asleep several times this afternoon, but everytime my eyes would close, I'd feel hot, "hungry" breath in my face and Connor would say "boo!" It's a good thing he's so attentive, though...I don't need to be dozing while he's sneaking around dunking his hand in the toilet (which he does all the time) or finding his mom's underwear drawer and running around the house in his new "panty hat," even though that really cracks me up.

Yesterday when I was changing his diaper, Connor kicked his leg suddenly and a nice lump of poo rolled down off the bed where we change him, hit my leg and plopped down on the floor like an especially nasty scoop of ice cream. It's not the big things, like meltdowns in public places or the temper tantrums in the den that make this job so hard — it's the poop...next to my foot...on the floor.

Sheesh.