A year.

A lot of times I walk past it on my way to do other things without even thinking.

Most days I can pass by it at least once without noticing it there.

Every day I look at it and think of how empty it is.

I’ve thought about taking it apart and putting it in the garage, where I will not see it as often, or be tempted to picture him there.

I’ve stood before it crying because it isn’t being used.

I’ve wondered why it remains in my home even though I don’t think it will ever have use here again.

I contemplate whether it is unhealthy.  I worry that it means I’m broken.

I’m not ready for it to go anywhere.  I’m not entirely sure what that means.  I know what you think it may mean.  It’s not that.  I’m just not ready.

I know that at some point I will be.  And then I will do it myself, and it will be okay.

But for now it stays.

There is a crib in my hallway.  It is wooden, and lonely, and it just waits and waits for a someday that never was.

It’s been a very long year.

Just for the record…

…going into my child’s room at night in response to Mega-Screaming, to change a diaper full of diarrhea and clean the shit off of his face and hands is NOT the definition of My Ultimate Fantasy. (I swear, he got some in his mouth. *gag*)

I mean, there was no Kiefer Sutherland, anti-gravity underwear, perfect boobs for life, endless supply of calorie-free chocolate, or no-cost, worry-free daily babysitting offer in there ANYWHERE.

And wait… wait… let me check… no. I did not have the world’s largest, multiple orgasm at any time before, during, or after the event. (by the way, if I had? I’d be seeking therapy RIGHT NOW.)

And nobody has come to my door to offer doing my dishes, laundry, and to vacuum my carpets for the rest of my natural life.

Additionally, in case you were wondering, I have not found the deed to my private island lying around anywhere.

Also, there is still cellulite on my ass cheeks.

So, confirmation: it had NOTHING to do with any ultimate fantasy of mine.

It was just runny excrement. YAY!

(Why, oh why, do they have to get curious and stick their hands in there?)

PS: Don’t worry, I’m no Poop Newbie. This is the home of Scatastrophe.