Hubby's Brushes with Death-Part 3

I have said this before and I will say this again: I love my husband. Dearly. Unconditionally, even. That does not save him, however, from these Near Death Experiences. I think he lives for them. Sort of like a BASE jumper. Maybe it's the adrenaline rush from knowing that I'm seconds from "accidentally" leaving something on the stairs again and making sure he's the next one that needs to go downstairs in the wee hours of the a.m. [ah, new blog idea!].

Let me just start off this story by letting you know that I am never on time. I shoot for a certain time and miss it...horribly. That's not the greatest when you're in the military. Anyone who has served in any branch knows the mantra: "if you're early you're on time, if you're on time you're late." Well, I'm late...all the time. I know, I suck.

So once again, I'm fifteen minutes away from the time I should be starting my car and I'm only half dressed, my kids are whining, and my husband's playing on the computer. I'm frantically looking for my wallet (and I suck at looking for stuff when I'm in a panicked frenzy) and my baby, Dozer [like bulldozer; formerly referred to as Chunky, but this is much more applicable...especially since he's thinning out now] is screaming at my feet, practically crawling up my legs. *sigh* Ah! Fine! I pick him up and start smelling this familiar smell. Oh, poop.

I turned to my Dear Wonderful Husband and say (okay, whine), "Hey! Can you please help me out here? I have to leave for work in fifteen minutes, the kids are really whiny, I'm not even dressed yet, I can't find my wallet and Dozer just pooped."

He turns around, looks at me sort of concerned and then replies, "Well, you have fifteen minutes."

And then he smiles.

He does change Dozer's diaper and helps me find my wallet. And then I push him down the stairs.

The End.