I'm sitting on an airplane with poop on my leg. Not my poop. His. Always his poop.

We've learned that Oliver likes to poop on planes. He waits until right before we take off and loads his diaper. Then we have to wait until we're in the air and the carts are out of the aisle before we take him and change him. It'll be a blowout that requires a new outfit. And I'm sure you can imagine how that goes in an airplane bathroom.

I'm hot and I'm sweaty and I'm tired and I have his poop on my leg—on my yoga pants, of course. Because yoga pants are pretty much my uniform. My hair hasn't been washed in three days.

But he worked really hard on that poop and, this time, he fell asleep on his and my poop pants immediately after pushing it out. So I'll wait to clean us up. And I'll stare at him and pet his hair and marvel at how I created this being, this tiny human who has his own needs, thoughts, and feelings.

I'll be hot and sweaty and tired, and so so grateful that I'm one of the lucky ones. I get to be his momma. I get to be hot and sweaty and tired. I get to have poop on my leg.

It's harder than I ever imagined it would be, but I'm working really hard to be okay at it all and to always put him first. I hope one day he'll know that—and even if he doesn't, I will. He is, and will continue to be, my biggest accomplishment.

Who knew you could feel so lucky to use so much Spray and Wash?