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The thermostat went all wonky last night.
I dunno what happened to it, but when we got up, my room was 5 below, and K’s room seemed to have relocated itself to the sun.
I can’t believe she didn’t melt.
I picked her up to find her stinky and moist. She had sweat through her wintertime pj’s and her hair was plastered to her head like a faux-hawk gone terribly wrong. She needed a bath.

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I didn’t sleep well last night, so this morning I hit the snooze. I hit it, and I hit it, and then I hit it again. I made that snooze button my bitch until I knew I had exactly -and no more- enough time to get both children ready for school. There was not a millisecond to spare. There was no chance of a bath for stinky K.

I brushed her disgusting moist hair. Luckily, it was so wet with sweat that it was plyable. I stuck it to her head like she was George McFly, then I thought a moment and added a pretty little barrette. Just so everyone would know that I had tried. Then I took it out so no one would know I had tried.

The truth sank in: Miss Michelle was going to see and smell my child this morning.

They dressed. They ate. We made it to the car (They were even wearing shoes) We got to the bus stop (even before the bus closed its’ doors).
I call that a victory.
Off went J, dressed (with no clothing on backwards) and breakfasted. Shoes on (correct) feet, backpack on back; one child down.

Next: To preschool.

I was feeling pretty good. Despite my sweaty stinky toddler, I feel I made the best of what could have been a crappy, crappy, morning. Then, just as I finished congratulating myself on a job partly done, something extremely malodorous began creeping its way up from the back seat. I checked the rearview (I set the rearview so I can see the kids as well as the road. It makes them think I have eyes in the back of my head) and she was making the poop face.

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Shit. (Literally.)

Since my Miss Michelle mishap, I’ve been trying extra hard to suck up. (Gee Miss Michelle, your mullet is looking extra feathered today.) I think Miss Michelle might even be over it… a little. Not 100 percent, but there’s been progress.

This is going to set us back.

I could pull over and change her, but judging from the looks of that face, the bathroom door was shut and the newspaper was open. It was going to be a while.

And was she ripe.

I stopped the car at the entrance to the preschool. The stink of dried sweat and poop was a fog in the car. Now what? Hand her over to Miss Michelle along with my pre-rehearsed sweaty stinky child disclaimer AND a sorry she pooped in the car apology?

No, really, I’m not just foisting a poopie diaper on you. It was out of my hands. Nothing I could do. Cross my heart. Swear it on a stack of Bibles.

As I opened the drivers side door, green fumes came wafting out and drifted up into the atmosphere. I got K and walked her saggy diapered butt inside.
I adjusted her pieces of greasy hair, which are now bent in all directions from the car ride and ‘on the go’ defecation.
We walked in. I saw Miss Jenna and Miss Michelle, each occupying an opposite end of the playroom.
I put K’s coat and lunchbox (She forgot Tittie today, score one for limited time) in her cubbie, and brought her around to where the kids were playing.
There was an opportunity before me.
A large band of tightly knit children were playing legos in the center of the room. We made our way to the center of the group, and she started to play.

She was the Trojan Horse.

Since she was in such a big playroom, it will take the offending smell some time to reach Miss Michelle or Miss Jenna, and since she was among so many of her own kind, more time for them to locate the offender.

I had created an exit strategy for myself. I am a real life 007.

This is me.

This is me.

I gave her a kiss and made to walk out. I cut to the left (away from Miss Michelle) to where miss Jenna was sitting (on the smallest chair in the world) with some children eating breakfast. I said hello and goodbye, and slipped quietly by her toward the door.
Score. Then Miss Jenna said:

“Did she leave Tittie at home all by herself today?”

Ugh. She’s so caring and observant all the time.
I said yes.
And this is where I should have exited the building. Did I exit the building?

No, no of course not.

Instead, because I can’t help myself, my pre-rehearsed stinky sweaty child disclaimer ejected itself like word vomit.
I told her everything. How our thermostat went all wonky and how K got so sweaty her hair was all plastered to her head like she hasn’t had a bath in weeks but of course she has, so isn’t that funny, because my children are always so clean and smell fresh like daisies and certainly I would never judge (down to the exact second) how long I can stay in bed before J misses the bus because I always get up long before the kids so I can vacuum and gather wildflowers for the table to make it cheery for their breakfast.
I was still having diarrhea of the mouth when I began to smell the trojan horse.

Miss Jenna: (makes a face) Do you smell something?
Me: (sniffing incredulously, if that’s possible.) ummmm…. No. Well, have a fun day!
Out of my periphery, I saw Miss Michelle make the sniffing face.
It was time to go.
I made it to the car unscathed. I even dared to look back through the big picture window. All children were being inspected.

I had no choice. I HAD NO CHOICE.
If they asked, she got stinky on their time.
I am a real life 007. M and Miss Moneypenny would be proud.
I should totally have my own movie.

Also me. Shaken, not stirred.

Also me.