Today Sam had what was possibly the poopiest, stinkiest, heaviest, chunkiest diaper that has ever existed in the entire history of babies. It was bad – very bad – and I immediately launched into the frenzy known in our house as Code Brown Protocol. In the middle of the fury, George wandered into the nursery, and saw – or should I say, smelled – the goings on.
“Whoa,” he said, backing out slowly.
“Hold it right there,” I said, brandishing a handful of baby wipes. “Don’t you dare bail on me.”
“It looks like you’ve got in under control. It’s not like there’s anything I can do,” George said, still inching away.
Husbands, know this: we don’t expect you to slay dragons on our behalf, but changing a poopie diaper once in awhile goes a long, long way to winning our hearts.
Men. Hmph.

Sam and I spent the morning at the Florida Department of Highway Safety & Motor Vehicles.
The entire morning.
I think at one point time actually stood still. And for a period of forty-five minutes, they didn’t call a single number.
Not. One. Single. Number.
The woman sitting to my right kept leaning over and saying to Sam, “Your mother is so mean for bringing you here. Isn’t she mean? Isn’t she?”
The woman sitting to my left had toenails that were a half-inch long. She’d filed them into sharp, knife-like points.
The sixteen year old girl across the lobby was dressed in Britney-inspired slut wear. Every fifteen minutes she’d duck outside for a cigarette break, each time accompanied by her lout of a boyfriend, who kept his hand firmly planted on her ass at all times.
And then when they finally got to me, and processed my application, and handed me my shiny new laminated license, I discovered that I now possess what might be the worst driver’s license photograph of all time. I look maniacal in it, like the kind of evil super villain who hatches plots to take down Batman.
But then on the way home they played Chains of Love by Erasure on the radio, so the day wasn’t a total loss.

It’s official: I’m a mom. I’m in the process of acquiring a minivan.
Yes, I know it’s a complete dorkmobile, and no, it is impossible to look even remotely cool while driving it.
But, hell, it has sliding back doors that open up at the touch of a button. Do you know what that means to someone who has to wrestle a 25-pound baby into his Britax car seat while also hauling a diaper bag, a stroller, an assortment of toys and an emergency bottle of sunscreen? Huh? Do you?
A lot, that’s what it means.
And so if it damages my reputation as a dudette*, than so be it. I can live with that. What I can not live with is hitting my head one more freaking time while trying to load Sam into a sedan.
*In case you missed it, that was a cheeky reference to the Geek in Sixteen Candles.