Last night, after Boy Pop had been tucked into bed, I retreated to the laundry room to transfer my whites from the washer to the dryer.
As I was transferring the clothes, I heard the distinctive rattle of what I assumed was a rock, coin, or piece of wood. Thanks to a curious four-year-old, these things often find their way into my laundry. Well that and a lack of properly checking pockets and mainly just dumping clothes into the machine. I digress.
I get to the bottom of the washing machine and discover what was making the rattle.
It wasn't a coin, rock, or piece of wood.
I screamed at Dr Pop to come take a look to confirm my suspicions. Wondering why I was freaking out, he came over and had a look. "No way," he said. But I *knew* what it was...
There was POOP in my washing machine! Washed with my WHITES!
My friends, my weekend did have some gorgeous highlights. It was fantastic for the most part. But there were a couple of really bad lows that the Universe decided to throw in for good measure, just to keep me on my toes.
Shit in my washer... (Literal Shit. In. My. Washing. Machine.)... Just seems such a fitting completion to the weekend.