Ella asked if we could play soccer and baseball on the greenbelt after a long Target run with me. I told her to ask Daddy. After he agreed to play I overheard her say, "I want Mommy to not come," as I walked into the room. He gave me a sad face and almost started to speak when I quickly said, "That's good. I didn't want to play, anyway." He tells me they'll be back in half an hour.
Two minutes later, he's looking horrified and carrying her in at arm's distance; she's had a potty accident.
"Do you need help?" I ask, hoping I don't have to stop reclining on the couch.
"Yes," comes his desperate voice from the bathroom.
He's standing there staring at her standing next to the potty. They both look dumbfounded and forlorn.
Sigh. "I'll do it."
"Now we're not going to be able to play on the greenbelt!" he says.
She starts to cry, "I want to still play...."
"You can still play. Why not?" Please, this is not a punishable offense.
"You still have time." Seriously? How long does he think it will take me to clean her up and change her panties?
"I want Mommy to come."
"No. Mommy needs a break," he says.
"I don't have to explain that one," he answers.
I don't say a word, except to ask her if she has to pee before they go back outside. She says no, but he tells her she has to try, and she does pee. He launches a one-sided discussion about the merits of going potty in the potty--the time saved, the cleanliness, the health.
Eighteen minutes of playtime remained before he had to start getting ready for work again.
My "thirty-minute" break has seven minutes remaining.
No one talk to me.