Fifth disease. Ezra has it.
Now, if you're anything like me (read: insane), you hear the words "fifth disease" and think HOLY SHIT, DISEASE? THE FIFTH ONE? OUT OF HOW MANY? LIKE, ON A SCALE OF THE TOP TEN MOST TERRIBLE DISEASES YOUR PRESCHOOLER CAN GET?
Not so much. It basically means: He had a cold, and then got a rash. Oh, and it looks like someone backhanded him across the face a couple times. No biggie.
I recently ordered a retractable clothesline for our backyard, pledging to take my dirty hippitude to a new level: I was gonna hang my baby's poop-rags outside to dry, in the sun, in front of God and my dog and the one neighbor who can see into our yard.
It started out well. It even made Ye Olde Annoying Instagram!
Aw, how pretty! Points deducted for not using vintage upcycled shabby chic wooden clothespins from Etsy, however.
I was only about halfway through the diapers when I posted that, and once I finished I sat up on the deck and admired my obnoxious hipster old-school handiwork. Look at me! I own a perfectly functional electric dryer but no, I am conserving! I am industrious! Fuck you, modern convenience. The old ways really are better when you think about it when we all got our hands dirty and slowed things down and DAMMIT I would so blog about this but THERE'S TOO MUCH SUN-GLARE ON MY iPAD OUT HERE.
Anyway, that's about the exact second when the tension gave out in the piece of shit line and the whole thing collapsed to the ground, taking two dozen freshly-washed diapers with it.
I tried again, after double-checking the instructions -- I mean, this isn't rocket science, right? Extend, wrap thingie around that other thingie, bathe in smug sense of wholesome green prairie-living pride, and...same thing. WHOOSH. Lawndiapers.
I cursed a bit, collected all the diapers, and shook off some dirt and leaves.
Then I went inside and put them all in the dryer.
JUST AS THE LORD INTENDED.
I have exactly seven minutes to think of a third thing to talk about here, before I have to get Noah at the bus stop. Why do I need a third thing? I don't know. I JUST DO. Even if I tell myself that two is a prime number, just like three and five, it still feels wrong and incomplete. After five things I always feel compelled to keep going until 10, though, so at least I didn't come up with six things to talk about because then my eyelid would get all twitchy.
Wait a second. I can solve that one. The rest of that six-thinged entry would look like this:
7) Eeek! Eyelid twitch!
8) Explanation of compulsive need for 10-itemed listicle.
9) Vague, nonsensical rantings re: Dave Letterman.
10) Random pet or baby photo. Hooray!
Ceiba says 'sup.
OH DEAR GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE