This morning Eric and I had a Google chat about poop. Specifically around, how I, um, had to go, and his assertion that girls don’t poop, or if they do, that it smells like rainbows.

We are easing quite fluidly into a new routine at Chez McDougall-Foster, the Eric is Around the House All the Time new way of life.

He’s set up in his “office” in the basement (he picked his stuff up from work yesterday, and even brought his family photos downstairs), where we communicate via the aforementioned chat and various foot-stomping codes. We meet for a lunch date around 11:30 — the latest I can go without food — and watch Cold Case Files and American Justice together on the couch, our crossed feet touching on the padded ottoman.

For Lucy’s (and ours, too, but more for her) sake, we are trying to keep things as normal as possible. That means Eric’s alarm still goes off at 7 a.m., he still gets Lucy up while I eek out as many extra minutes of sleep as possible, he heads to the shower, and I stay in bed with my arm slung around Lucy’s tiny waist as she watches Rolly Pollie Ollie until the shower water stops and I haul myself out of bed.

I still do breakfast, and he still does morning drop-off. So far, Lucy hasn’t batted an eye. When she says her usual “Daddy go to work,” we smile and nod, because Daddy is going to work trying to find a new job. I’ve started telling her that Daddy’s working from home for a while now, trying to justify his presence when we arrive from daycare.

I think she’s too young to really know what’s up, but bet she’ll find it hard when he does find work and he’s back to his usual hours. Will wait and see, I guess.

For now, I’m loving the extra company and time with him. I do have some adjusting to do, however: Eric walked into our bedroom mid-morning to find me making smelly rainbows in the en suite bathroom with the door wide open.

Whoops.