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Yesterday was one of those surreal, magical days. A day that left my heart so full I could barely carry the weight of the love love love. There was singing, and eating of cake, and two TWO AND A HALF hour naps, and thirteen straight hours of sleep. Uninterrupted sleep.

It was a vision of what life with a one-year old could be. And it was positively divine.

And then, BAM! Wednesday hit us like a tank with napalm and a bad attitude towards brick, the brick being me and James.

Right about now, James is curled up in the fetal position, hidden beneath a sheet of white, manically rocking and mumbling, Make the bad man go away, all the while nursing a bottle of whiskey.

Indeed, bad man, GO AWAY.

See, today, was back to life, back to reality.

(And now I’m eerily humming some 80s jam in sync with James’ rocking)

Addison broke out in a fever and rash, all the while teething. This made for some epic, guttural, choking-on-a-cat-eating-a-baby-bunny scream cries.

I’m talking that inconsolable, crazy, out-of-control, I’VE LOST MY MIND, kinda cry. That makes you want to slit your tits. And then scoop out your ear drums. With an ice pick.

I came home post-spin class, waddling much like a year ago, except a year ago I had a pad the size of Texas between my legs layered with packs of ice in medical gloves, held together my mesh underwear because I had recently pushed a 9 lb WATERMELON through the lady parts.

Today, I was just crusted in sweat and saddle sore from having a man bedecked in spandex yelling at me to, Find my inner power.

Look bitch, I think that this here bike has “found my inner power” if you know what I’m saying.

James is more than mildly miffed that the bike got more than he’s had this whole year, and incapacitated my vagina for the next half century.

But, where was I?!

Oh, vicious cow torture and the brawling of hyenas.

I arrived home and James looked a tad shell-shocked so I offered to take Addison, who promptly crapped her pants.

I laid her on the changing table which only escalated the hog-demolishing-a-pack-of-wild-geese-squeals. I attempted to remove her diaper and skillfully wipe her poo-covered ass without coating myself, her, and the changing table in feces. However, she, being less than pleased, flipped over in fury and my instinct? To grab hold of her ankles and dangle her in the air much like one would hold a piece of biscotti above one’s cafe au lait. Only, imagine that the biscotti is coated in baby poop. Nay, dripping with baby poop.

I started yelling for James, while Sunny’s face turned NEON pink from the wails and the upside down man-handling. He came in, wipes, and is all, I HAVE HAD ENOUGH SHIT FOR ONE DAY, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. So I scurry the cloth poo diaper into the bathroom to clean at a later time when Addison isn’t reenacting The Exorcist.

While I’m in the nursery trying to sooth her wails and wreaking of stale vagina sweat (God, I NEED A SHOWER), I suddenly hear James scream, NO NO NO NO!!!!!!!

Hanna had pushed her way into the bathroom. And was dragging that wet, gooey, slimy poo covered diaper, DOWN. THE. HALL.

I can’t even make this shit up.

Sorry, James, shit hit the fan. Again.

After getting a handle on the poo-poo hallway and knocking Addison out with a shot of gin, I settled into the bathtub with a glass of champagne, and James saddled up to the computer.

I came out of the bathroom, refreshed, relaxed, ready to curl up with a good book and my man, when I gazed at the bed in which I envisioned such curling up should occur, and there is a flood, I’m talking Noah’s-ark-style, on the bed.

Why? WHY YOU ASK?!

Because Hanna learned how to jump on the bed this morning.

And I think that we all know where this is going…

Ah parenthood, how you keep us humble.

Let’s just remember this happy day, shall we.