My children made books. Out of my maxi pads.
Maxi pads that had been shamelessly stolen out of my super-private Mommy cupboard, (as if I had something "super-private"), when I turned my back to do something. For like a minute. And it wasn't like I was doing something like getting a quick pedicure and they made maxi pad books. No. I, like, peed. Or drank water to soothe my parched throat. Or gave myself a crumb of sustenance while standing at the refrigerator.
I must learn to pee faster.
And my children wrote stories in these maxi pad books.
About a spaghetti-eating ladybug and a long satin purple ribbon and a dragon named "Phil" with fiery bad breath.
And Lucy wrote her name. A lot. On the maxi pad book and in different color markers.
This seemed completely normal to me.
Although yesterday I walked around with a flour hand print on my butt all day long. Take that into consideration when thinking about "normal".
And we were very proud of the maxi pad books. I should home-school, don't you think?
The new Spanish-speaking, cat-loving babysitter better get here soon. Before I let them make tiny parachutes out of my tampons for Sky Diving Barbie.
I might do that. I'm just sayin'.