Poo Day

By: Khylee Forgety 

(I have no other purpose to share this with you all than I needed to write it down for my sanity. After reading it, I laughed and thought some of you might need a laugh today too. So although it is longer than my usual post, stay with me till the end.)

It has been one of those days. You know the kind.  The one where you look back and can only laugh because if something was going to go wrong, it did.

Let me back up though.  Before we had kids in our home, I lived in a fantasy. You all know the one.  

It plays out something like this:
My children wake up at 8:00, refreshed and rested and ready to listen.
Breakfast is home made, biscuits and gravy, of course.
I prepare it with ease, and answer all my littles request with patience and kindness.
I sit and drink my coffee, feet propped up.
I read them books. We do crafts. We only eat local, prepared from scratch food. 
Nothing, and  I mean nothing, ruffles my feathers.  
The house is magically clean, all the time.
Cool, calm and collected, that's me.
Think Martha Stewart meets Mother Theresa. 

And here is my reality today:
5:30 a.m.: A child wakes up for  no reason at all other than just because it is Sunday.
Since it is Sunday and I am a minister's wife, I am by myself.
Like any good mother, I set up the netflix, give a stern command to remain on the coach and be quiet and put myself back to bed.

7:30 a.m. I better get up now or we will be rushing.  I let the dogs out, get the smallest out of his crib, take the trash out and discover the gate to the backyard is WIDE open and the two little furballs are nowhere in sight. 

Open gate = home free

Doned in nothing than my night clothes and flip flops, I frantically call for the dogs and start walking down the street. Nothing.

Run inside, tell the kids whats up, give a stern "be good" and then run out the front door.

Spot Capo crossing the street. Be still my heart. And starting lovingly calling her name. Dumb as rock that dog, she comes running and I scope her up. One down, one to go.

Go back to check on the kids, where are they? O, you know, they had to get that music box down from the chest of drawers, and coincidentally knocked off lamp. Whatever.

Go to my purse to get the keys out of it.  And what do you know.  My sweet husband didn't put them back after he had to use them last night. 

For the love. Could anything go right?

Frantic call. Frantic call. Frantic call. Nothing.  He is practicing the band. 
Finally an answer. Annoyed, stressed, worried, I say (maybe scream? It is kinda fuzzy): 

Me: Where are my keys? The dogs are out!
Adam: I'm coming, I'm coming home now. Sweet, he is always so sweet to me even when I don't deserve it. 
Love that man more every day.

Gather the kids in their pajamas.  Put on their shoes. Throw some granola bars at them. The search party is ready.

Adam comes home, and goes out to look for Luna.  All I can think about is the big bad world she is traipsing around in.  She doesn't know to look both ways before she crosses the street. She is fluffy baby,  not a street dog.

The car pulls up, she is home. Praise the Lord!

All is well. Until it isn't.

Me and the littlest are just vacuuming the floor (don't ask, my OCD is a discussion for another day, cleaning is how I handle stress) and I look over and the princess has something brown on her princess dress.  I look down, and see it.

Poop. Dog poop. Multiple pieces.  

And one that is smashed into the floor.  Of course in all their escapades the dogs had forgotten the reason they were supposed to be outside in the first place.

Strip down sister and put her in the tub, requesting her not to touch anything. And please, just this once, don't drink the bath water.  

Round the corner to do some damage control and I see two little feet sitting. Sitting in the poop.  And not just sitting but holding a nerf gun and swirling it around in it.


Strip kid #2, look at him and angrily say something about not playing in poop. That's nasty.
And as if it couldn't get worse, as I am taking off his diaper, I see something brown.  Yep, more poop.  Thanks little man for dropping a huge load.  Your timing couldn't have been better.

After an obscene mound of diaper wipes, and another strong reminder to not drink the bath water. Project clean the dog-poo commenced.

And at the end of it all. I just had to laugh. Perfect, as much as I want to be, does not describe me, or our family. It is not our reality, it is a dream. Thank you Jesus for loving us despite our messiness.
Our reality....pre-poo discovery. Just keeping it real. 


Forgety Family: Update

I received a birthday card from one of my aunt’s back in March, who is so sweet and always sends me a card, with a comment that she misses the updates on the blog.  And I thought to myself, “Has it really been that long since I updated? I just posted last week.”

Well, it’s been more like 4 months. Whatev.

So…here is quick recap of our adoption progress over the last 4 months:
·         January 9th:  Received our updated number of 76
·         February 16th: Received our new number of 74
·         April 9th: Received our new number of 67

Nothing terribly exciting but still progress none-the-less towards bringing our kiddo(s) home.  We are about to have to start the process of updating all our paperwork/fingerprints/etc.  and that thought alone makes me have a mini panic attack.  

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Until then we are hanging out with our two small tator tots that:
  • are learning to use the big potty,
  • like to give hugs straight out of the bath tub while they are still soaking wet, 
  • call us "Ty-lee" and "A-don", 
  • like to pray about their poop, 
  • change clothes at an alarming rate, 
  • throw wild-eye hissy fits because we cannot magically produce juice at any given moment in time, and on command
  • and love us despite all the flaws Adam and I have.


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