Mud in the Face

I had a “Your a lousy parent who deserves to be berated by Dr. Phil” moment yesterday. The entire family was outside enjoying some fresh air. The boys were chasing the dog. I guess you could say my daughter was playing in the sandbox. She was actually throwing it over her shoulder. Then, I spied a pile of leaves under a bush. I am what some may call obsessive compulsive. I don’t have to flip the light switch a dozen times when I leave a room or line the soup cans in the cabinet. However, once I get an idea in my head I have to finish the task at that moment. I decided it would only take a few minutes to get a rake and bag them up. My neighbor is lazy and doesn’t clear his yard in the fall. He also has an obese 20-something son who acts like a Power Ranger and practices Karate on trees. Anyway, by Spring his mess has blown in my yard. I’ve thought about throwing the yard waste over the fence, but I’m too dignified. I walked out front to clear the area around the porch. I didn’t realize my husband took an important business call. Moments later, he sprints toward me asking where our daughter was. Honestly, I wanted to rip his face off. We started yelling her name. Silence. As I turned a corner I slid on patch of mud landing on my face. It turns out my daughter was playing in a play house in the backyard. (Right next to the f-ing sandbox) The entire ordeal lasted a minute, but felt like an eternity. I still don’t think it’s as bad as leaving your kid overnight with a mouse named Chuckie.

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