While on a church mission trip during my middle school years, we had to share two showers between 40 teenagers and chaperones. The shower police stood outside the stall with a stop watch. At three minutes, you were ousted. Pure torture for this then 14-year-old girl.
The three-minute shower strikes again!
There will be some moment tomorrow morning when Henry isn't fussy. When he isn't demanding to be fed, changed, burped or walked around the house in endless circles. And then that moment strikes, I race him into the nursery, place him in his crib and wind up the mobile as far as it goes while simultaneously ripping off my pajamas and holding my towel between my teeth.
I will then shower with the door open, just in case. After my three minutes are up, I'll put on one of the three pants that fit me right now and a nursing tank. About this time, Henry will start fussing so I'll flip my tangled, wet hair into a ponytail and arrive just in time to rescue him from his now quiet mobile before a screaming fit can begin.
It will all repeat in three days. OK every four days; who am I kidding?
Next up: How I make myself a cup of coffee every morning, warm it up at least eight times before finally giving up and dumping half of it down the drain at 5 p.m.