Super Bowl

Because it wouldn't be a party if one of my kids didn't shit all over the bathroom of someone else's home.  Rosaline's been doing really great with number two's.  Like so great that we've completely moved out of the potty training phase.  Unfortunately we spent the weekend up at the cabin and one by one the girls came down with a slight case of the diarrhea. ... of course, when has a slight case of diarrhea ever been slight?  Rosaline was the last to get hers, just after we got home and a few hours before we crossed the street to our neighbors to watch the big game.  At the time Gina noted how lucky we were that her bought happened before the party started.  I stared at the words as they hung in the air above us, then I shrugged my shoulders and moved on with life. ... like there was no reason what so ever to be concerned about the uncontrollable bowel of my recently potty trained offspring who has a propensity to dissapear upstairs at strangers houses and test the very finest cleaning solutions the planet has to offer.  Sure enough, two minutes into the third quarter - "Momma?!  Daddy?!  Zozzie has khaka on her legs."  She did.  It was true.  She also had it on the bathroom counter, the lid of the toilet, the outside of the toilet, the tile floor, the tub oh, and every inch of herself.  Touchdown!!!!!!!  I love how a bunch of the commercials yesterday were geared at dads, tugging on their heartstrings about the beauty of fatherhood.   You'll note that not one of them showed a kid covered in fecal matters and their pregnant wife bent over a toilet screaming the words "go get the Clorox wipies - we need reinforcements on this one!"