Poopity poopity

This weekend. OH. This. Weekend. For some reason, "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe" comes to mind. I have no idea why. There was no wardrobe involved, nor were there lions or witches. What there WAS, however, was a whole helluva lot of diarreah. Copious amounts of diarreah. And it came from such a tiny, unassuming, little butt. Why hasn't someone invented a diaper that can withold the vigors of diarreah?

My weekend began on Thursday, around 2pm, with a call from the babysitter: "It's Claire, she has diarreah and a fever." OH JOY. I rush outta the office to go pick up my pooping baby from the sitter's. Of course, I have to pick up Jenna, too, because you can't pick up one without picking up the other. It just doesn't work that way. So I pick them up, and Claire is (1) so excited to see me (2) SO excited to see me that she craps in her pants--again. Jenna, meanwhile, is telling me all about her sister's "poo-stinky diarreah" and how it "got on her pants, mom, and it is really nasty." Thanks for the update, kid.

I get them all strapped into the mom-mobile, and take off. I have to stop at the "candy and medicine store" (Walgreens) to get some Motrin, because I'm a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of mom, and I do not have that kind of stuff at home. And I have TWO...can you believe?? Anyways, we stop at the Walgreens to get Motrin. Of course, we come out with Motrin, a bag of Milky Ways, chocolate-covered raisins, Junior Mints (because who really needs fruits and vegetables when you have chocolate), and a box of tampons. Jenna is seemingly more excited with the prospects of a new "tampon book" than the candy, and Claire has a look of evil consternation on her face, which means something's brewing down below.

Seriously, I don't even know where I was going with this...