The house exhales as the last of the fifty-or-so people leave Mister’s first birthday party. I think everyone had an okay time. And I managed to make the house look like it isn’t run by a toddler. I’m starting to relax when it hits me: I haven’t gone to the bathroom all day.
I race upstairs only to find Mister’s vomit covered sweater still soaking in the sink. From yesterday. What is more embarrassing, having someone tell me about the sweater or discovering it after everyone’s paraded through my bathroom and seen it?
What wool (pun intended) would you like to remove from authors’ eyes?