In Which I am More than 50 Yards away from My Offspring…

You know that moment when your five-year-old had soaked his pants and gloves falling in an icy puddle but then had to go emergency number 2 in a port-a-potty which you couldn’t go vet for him because you were holding a one-year-old in a snow suit who touches everything and the three-year-old over by the van was yelling that he had to go pee-pee and has only been potty trained for about a week and so you put the one-year-old down to help the three-year-old run to the trees to drop his pants and then the one-year-old wandered off towards a dumpster while you ran back to the playground to get the diaper bag with the van keys in it because the doors are locked and by the time you get the diaper bag you have to sprint back mostly because you’re afraid the old man walking his two white yappy dogs will judge you for letting your respective offspring simultaneously poop unsupervised in a port-a-potty, pee in the bushes and play near a dumpster?

Me too.

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