Yesterday was really one of "those" days. I apparently forgot to take my Zoloft Sunday night, and was just a wee bit testy. After I got the kids home from Kids' Day Out, I went to the bathroom. While I was on the toilet, the kids come running in and tell me that Picabo kitty pooped on my herbal hotpack. Picabo is 14 years old and has been boycotting her litterbox, but this is the first time she's gone that far.

While I was cleaning up that mess, Sam pooped his pants (power of suggestion?), went to the toilet and managed to smear poop all over himself and the side of the toilet while getting his pants down, then started hollering for me. I went and gave him the hairy eyeball, then told him I was tired, tired, TIRED of cleaning up his poopy messes and he was on his own. He screamed and squalled for 20 minutes, while I went back to cleaning up Picabo's mess.

Then Erin decides it's her turn, and she goes to my bathroom at the other end of the house and starts yelling for me to come wipe her bottom! At least she pooped in the toilet. About this time, DH called to ask me something. Sensing something was amiss (no great feat), he asked me what was wrong. So I told him. "S***! S*** is wrong! S*** is everywhere! All I do is clean up s***! Just call me the s***scooper! S***, s***, s***!!!!!!" Imagine this embellished with throwing things.

Thank goodness not every day is like that. Actually, most of my days are pretty much like that, except for the cat poop. That was kind of the last straw.

The moral of this story? I'm not sure; maybe: if you're not sure if you took the Zoloft, take it again!