Bird Shit

It's 90 degrees here in Boston.  I have two small kids with Irish complexions.  One just started walking and the other one just started sitting up without assistance.  Even if they were both Olympic God medalists "cooling off" at the beach isn't' really an option for us (which is so annoying because the beach is literally four blocks from my house).  Between all of the sand my ten month old son would likely eat combined with all three of us probably spontaneously combusting because of the sun -- it's in our best interest to find alternatives to the beach to try and cool off on days like this.

Cooling off means either braving the outdoors, setting up the kiddie pool or the sprinkler, wearing factor 50 and about as many layers of clothing as we would in the winter -- or we try to find things to do in the house in front of one of our AC units.  Once everyone's had enough of being trapped indoors, we might get brave and venture out to find a place that takes very little effort to get to and will have AC when we get there.  Oh, and maybe ice cream.

I'm having one of the those days where more is working against me than working for me.  So, once it finally cools off (meaning the temperature dropped to like 87 degrees) the decision is to walk the kids over to a new frozen yogurt shop.

On the way back a bird shits on my face.  Literally.  It hit me right above the eye and then dropped a second sample which slowly dripped down my arm.  It was warm.  I was warm.  This made for just about the most disgusting combination of sensations I've had in a long time (besides last summer when I was pregnant during heat like this and therefore I experienced a variety of disgusting sensations pretty much every day until I gave birth on September 1st).

I forgot to bring the wipes.  Which I originally thought the most annoying thing about this would be what more do you need than a freakin package of wipes when you are feeding your two children soft serve ice cream.  Alas, not having the wipes would turn out to be a much bigger bummer than I could have imagined.  Now, I can't wipe the bird shit off myself.  It's just going to have to stay there until I get back to the house and please god don't let me sweat so much that it just melts into my skin and runs down my entire face and left side of my body.

So, naturally, I start to kick it into high gear so I can get my ass back to the house and get this disgusting shit off my face.  I'm walking down the hill pushing the double stroller in this god awful heat, a breeze finally kicks in, which in any other given moment I would have been super thankful for since it's been one of those days where there is has been no circulation of air.  But no, this breeze is not my friend -- it's making the bird shit dry and actually harden on my face.

You know, sometimes you can just be an adult about things, get shit on by a bird and just laugh it off.  Not today.  Today, I'm taking this personally.  Mr. Bird and Mr. Breeze can find some other poor sap to make the butt of their joke.  Instead this is just one of those super-trying-stay-at-home-mom-kind-of-days that ends in actually having someone (ok fine, to be fair, something) shit in your face -- adding insult to injury.  

It's the end of the day, I'm an exhausted mother of two, who is not exactly the freshest daisy on the street at this particular moment -- between the sweat, the sunscreen, the ice cream, and now the bird shit -- I am the literal definition of a Hot Mess.  

Really, was shitting on my eye really necessary, Mr. Bird?  And what do YOU have to say for yourself Mr. Breeze?  (Obviously, in this instance, Mr. Bird and Mr. Breeze double as two adolescent Southie punks wreaking havoc on East Broadway and it is my job as Super Mom to reprimand them for their terrible behavior).

You can't help but think in moments like these -- is some super natural power just having a laugh right now at my expense?  There wasn't anyone else you guys wanted to shit on on East Broadway besides me?