Tweet There we were, Big V and I, sitting peacefully side by side, grinning like maniacs because (1) The Bean was not at home, (2) Dotter was exhausted and taking a nap in her bedroom, and (3) Cletus was playing on the rug in front of us, blissfully unaware of our presence. Life was good. The house was quiet. Too quiet. Like the calm before the storm.
"HE POOPED!" V screamed. And yes, I mean screamed. Not spoke loudly. Not yelled. Not bellowed or shouted. He screamed. Perhaps even shrieked. "HE POOPED!" he screamed again, jumping up and at least three feet away from the baby. I stared at V as he stood pointing a shaking finger at the innocent little bundle of joy who was our son.
"OH MY GOD! LOOK AT IT!"
Sure enough... up the back of his diaper, down the side of the leg. Oh. My. God.
Suffice it to say, V and I do not handle emergency situations well.
"Me? What about you?"
"You've been through this before!"
"That's exactly why I shouldn't have to go through it again!"
"What? You're his mother - you should be there for him."
"I know I'm his mother. I had layers of flesh and fat and muscle sliced away in order to give birth to him, remember? The least you can do is go get him and clean him up!"
"Why don't you get him?"
"...by like four inches."
"Oh, so you're saying four inches isn't that much? Yeah, I don't think so either."
Thank God we have one of those spray hoses in the bathtub. They remind me of old people and I've always hated it, but it sure came in handy. We stripped the baby down and hosed him off as he laughed and giggled the entire time. Then I bleached the hell out of the bathtub because that was downright Dis. Gus. Ting!