I know I had something I planned to blog about, but I can't for the life of me remember because of the revolting development this morning. I have no idea why I feel like I need to write about it here, but it is truly all I can think about at the moment.
After I drop the kids off, I always call Brad to let him know they are delivered safely. It's Oprah's fault. When I was home on maternity leave with Issa she did a show about an assistant principal whose morning routine was off and she forgot to drop the baby off at daycare; the child passed away from overheating in the car. Clearly, I was traumatized, and so Brad and I have always called to confirm that the kids are at school. You would think that after nearly eight years I would be over this--especially considering I'm pretty sure my very grown up children would mention they are still in the car--but I'm not. I digress...
So, I called Brad and he mentioned that he had just cleaned up a dead bird from under Issa's chair at the table. Yes. You read that correctly. A freaking dead bird! Apparently one of our little furry hunters actually caught something this morning and snuck it in. It is taking everything in me not to go home and tear apart the house to be sure there are no other birds anywhere. Logic tells me there are not. But I am not a happy camper. Brad has it all cleaned up and sterilized, but I may never recover.
I have issues. The end.
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