Maybe I Could Skip Washing Behind My Ears

Dave wants to know why it takes me so long to get a shower. After all it only takes him 15 minutes to do the military routine of shit, shower, and shave.

So let's scrutinize my "routine."

First I have to take the baby upstairs with me. Because Dave thinks that leaving her under the watchful eye of Jamie is sufficient supervision while he does homework in the other room. And since we all know men are hopeless at multi-tasking this means that he will have no clue when she climbs the bookshelves or swings from the curtains. We can count on Jamie to cheer her on. That or give her a chair to help her climb up to the windowsill.

I change her diaper and get her clothes changed since she's wearing more of her breakfast than she ingested.

Next I put her in her crib and perform higher math. I engage in the subtle calculation of exactly how many toys and books I need to put in her crib so that I might complete my shower before she manages to toss every single last one out of her crib.

While I'm soaping my hair I hear Jamie approaching while he announces "I have to poop."

I spend the next five minutes washing myself as quickly as possible while I try to convince him to wait for me to wipe him so I don't also have to clean poo off of the toilet seat.

I get nowhere near a razor. Dreadlocks on legs are in fashion aren't they?

I get out of the shower and simultaneously dry myself while attending to Jamie's bottom, while being interrogated on penises and vaginas and where pee comes from and why boys and girls are different.

What? Doesn't everyone have this discussion before 8:00 am?

Since I didn't account for the additional time to attend to Jamie's hygiene, Meredith has long since emptied her crib, is bored, and shrieking angrily. I turn on the hair dryer to drown out the shrieks.

When I enter the room to get dressed the fragrance emanating from her nether-region tells me that her diaper is no longer clean. I manage to get her cleaned up and dressed again as well as dressing myself and convincing Jamie that he cannot wear his Lightning McQueen shirt that he spilled juice on even if the juice is dry.

Finally I arrive downstairs only to be asked, "What were you doing up there for so long?"

Oh honey! You know us high maintenance girls!

It takes time to look this frumpy.