My little girl is a champion pooper. We can’t get through three days without a blowout. For awhile, she was pooping during her diaper changes. Every. Single. Time.
So I’ve become more or less immune to messes that are less disgusting than liquid poop dripping down my daughter’s leg, into her sock, and onto the floor. Or less embarrassing than poop leaking through her fleece suit and soaking into my shirt while I stand in line at the grocery store.
Last night, as I was putting Hazel into her crib, I was holding her just right to create a gap between her leg and her diaper and she peed. And pee filled my hand, dripped down my wrist, and onto my sock. I got us clean and dry as quickly as possible, then had to settle her down again so I could finally get her to bed.
I came downstairs and tiredly told my husband what happened.
“That’s gross,” he said in commiseration.
Gross? I thought. That’s totally not where I was going with that. Inconvenient, bad timing, upsetting for the baby (because she had been asleep and woke up during the diaper change, not because she gave a hoot about peeing on me)… Gross didn’t even make my top ten words to describe it.
And that’s my point.
I'm pretty sure this is the only person in the universe who gets to pee on me.
Somehow, I’ve reached a place in my life where GETTING PEED ON DOESN’T REGISTER AS GROSS ANYMORE.
