8, count them, there are 8

We are in the midst of potty training the two little munchkins. Tiny is down to about 1-2 accidents every few days, but the boy has had some difficulty. We finally put him in big boy underwear (again) to give that a try (again)...and guess what?! It's working! He is becoming a self-sufficient peepeeinginthepotty little boy. He filled his potty chart on Saturday, which meant he got a dollar and a special date with mom to the Dollar Store.

Now, I knew this day would come; the day when my little boy would decide he liked--no let me rephrase that-- that he loved snakes, something that makes my heart race and anxiety creep up my crooked spine (yes, I have a crooked spine, that's not a pun). I just thought I could avoid it a bit longer. Did you know that you can get 12 of those little plastic pieces for $1?! (sorry, I hate even spelling the word, it FREAKS me out). But the boy went potty; he filled up his chart; what was I supposed to do?

My husband thinks it's hilarious; the same man who lovingly covered up the pictures of snakes in my biology book with duct tape just so I wouldn't freak out when I flipped through the reptiles chapter. And now he is laughing at the anxiety our little boy has caused me. In fact, later that night I stepped on a rubber band and it scared me so bad that I jumped on his back, crying and shaking.
My nerves are SHOT.

Which brings me to the title of this post. We started with 12, one is MIA, three ended up in the garbage (because they looked too real), and the remaining 8 go everywhere with Bud-duh. As long as I can account for all 8, I think I can survive this.



However, if you hear the story of a mother of three dropping dead of a heart attack at the age of 28, you'll know it's because I found one of them under my bed or behind the couch.