Why am I always the parent who gets woken up with news that one of the dogs has had diarrhea in the crate and is covered in poop?
When David and I married, our ketubah contained many promises. Promises to love, respect, honor and cherish. Promises to protect and care for each other.
Nowhere was there anything about hosing down poop encrusted dogs at 7:00 on a Saturday morning.
So now you know how my day started.
Luckily what followed was mostly sloth. Pugsley inspired us.
Forgive the pug privates. He's indecent.
After David and I devoted several hours to playing Scrabble we all ate bacon. It seemed the right thing to do.
Then I tried felting. Guess what? It's kind of boring. It holds none of the thrill of painting a floor or a piece of furniture. You take a wad of wool and turn it into a wad of felt.
After all of that relaxing I started getting a little twitchy. My people have not evolved to relax for more than an hour at a time. The Catholic guilt starts weighing more and more heavily until the only thing that's left to be done is clean the attic.
After an hour amidst the dust, old quilts and a small fortunes worth of American Girl Doll finery my conscience was restored.
It fact, at that point I felt virtuous enough to challenge David to another game of Scrabble.
And reader, though my day began by cleaning dog poop, it ended with me kicking David's butt at Scrabble.