If you ever catch yourself in the position of changing the wet diaper of a three month old in the backseat of a car, on top of a pillow, in the drive-thru of a Dairy Queen (because sweet hubby just has to yield to the TEXAS STOP SIGN and get a dip cone), please put down the baby and CALL ME.
I'll urge you to go to the nearest changing table to avoid what we affectionately refer to as the "baby playdoh machine" incident.
Apparently, one of my boy's bottoms was sensitive to changes in temperature. Now, that is fairly normal for the peepee part of the story, but, unbeknownest to me, it was also true for the poopoo part.
So, with diaper off and 74 more just outside the reach of my short little arms, my baby lets it go. If you've ever had the pleasure of putting playdoh through one of those squisher machines OR (queasy alert) watched the ice cream machine at your local dairy parlor, it was like that in 200x motion. But with some much volume coming so fast and with NO CLEAN DIAPER under his bum. What I did next came naturally: to save the car, I used my hand to catch the poo. Mike used his hand to clutch his mouth so I wouldn't hear him laughing myniacally.
There is no amount of time that can purge this memory from my mind. Mike, hands unaffected by playdoh boy, enjoyed his dip cone. I developed a new respect for playdoh, baby wipes and disinfecting gel.
Friends, there are few truths that equal this: parenting ain't for sissies. Or the squeamish.
No comments:
Post a Comment