Poo

 I have decided being mom to seven grown up kids is a harder job than being mom to seven not-grown-up kids. I keep misunderstanding, misinterpreting, and misjudging actions and expectations. It never ends. It is, quite honestly, exhausting. Miscommunication is a lot like a pile of dog poop in the middle of the sidewalk, the one never seen until it's too late. Hopefully I realize it's there before it gets tracked inside and is traced back to my shoes, but most likely I won't. Instead I'll be left feverishly attempting to get not only the stain, but also the stink, out of the carpet. Fun times. Not.

It's not the first time, just one in a never ending line.