John and I always joke that Remy and Martin are the canine forms of me and him. Martin, you see, is super laid back. When he’s ready to sleep, he calls it a night and leaves us alone in the living room while he heads off to bed. In the car, he’s fine with missing out on the scene as long as he can curl up into his tight ball and sleep. On the other hand, Remy likes to know what’s happening with everybody else. She has to stay in the same room as us to monitor what’s going on. When we take her in the car, she always sits up to see/smell out the window. The other thing about Remy is she prefers a schedule. In bathroom terms, that means she is very regular: she dumps twice a day, within 2 minutes of being outside. Just. like. clockwork.

So like Remy, I clear out the bowels morning and evening. Let me tell you, nothing like starting the day off right by dropping the kids off at the pool. Only thing is, when my morning commute ranges from 35-50 minutes, I don’t fuck around. Even if I’m running a tad late, I have to ditch the kids; otherwise, they’re riding along on a trip that never seems to end (“Are we there yet?”), know what I mean? Too risky. Needless to say, I was supposed to drive John to the airport Wednesday morning. We needed to leave the house by 6 a.m. Well what do you know, right at six, the kids started clamoring. I was in a hurry, and well, as soon as they dived in, I realized my sash (I was wearing a duster sweater) took a dip too. Yup, gross. Shit like that only happens to me, no?