Doing the morning thing this morning. Sam climbs up next to me on the couch. A few minutes later, he turns to me and, with an expression of mild disgust, says, "I don't know what you smell like."
And then, just in case I was confused and thought maybe he didn't know which flower I smelled like, he said, "But you smell stinky."
People. You cannot rely on my three-year-old to save me from myself. You are all adults. If I am stinky, you need to tell me. Because while, so far, I've been able to shower everyday, I will admit that many of my clothes are being "recycled." From the floor.
I'm struggling, folks. You all know that. But my efforts to accomplish the bare minimum in maintaining functionality have apparently failed, and nobody is telling me that I shouldn't wear Chris's clothes to work except my son. And that's a joke, because Chris doesn't have any clean clothes, either.
To be honest, I really don't want to hear it. But if Sam thinks I need an intervention, maybe you shouldn't leave him on his own to organize it, because then he will get balloons and pupcakes and sing happy birthday and I will MISS THE POINT. The thing is, unfortunately, I still have to go to work everyday, and interact with society and stuff like that. So while it is unnecessary for you to supply the word "beast?" when I get distracted while saying "I am a hideous puffy . . ." (thanks, Chris), you can feel free to point out when I have crossed the line in letting grooming slide.