Operating Instructions

Each morning, I imagine my shirt will remain clean until bedtime. Today will be the day.

Today, I will: get a bib on my infant before every feeding. Get the baby in the special dining seat, so when she throws prunes, I'm at least several inches beyond the "flight path." Observe the blue Dr. Brown "warning line," so excess milk doesn't nose its way past the tan stopper-disc and into my lap.

My plan lasts until ten am, when I decide I'll cheat just a bit. If I squirt pureed peas into my crying baby, my baby can continue to play while I keep my spot in John Grisham's "The Rainmaker."

Susie won't tolerate this, so then she is in my lap, spewing both tears *and* liquefied peas. A water wipe is an option, but it's easier just to use the shirt I'm wearing as a big rag.

Then, it's a long slide down, until at seven pm, Susie's urine makes it past her diaper, past her Minnie Mouse shorts, and onto my jeans, which are already speckled with pasta sauce. So it's time to commit to underwear-only, as if I'm Walter White from the pilot of "Breaking Bad."

I'm pretty sure I can invent some kind of professional second act for myself, and build a social network in Maplewood, and combat climate change, and write my novel. All this is around the corner. It's literally seconds away -- just as soon as I've solved my wardrobe issues.

We're reading Eric Carle. The guy couldn't write, but gosh, he knew his way around an art studio.

Happy Tuesday.

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