A Troublesome New Perspective

11 02 2012

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.

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He Sees You Doing That, Too

19 12 2011

I was SO anticipating our first obligatory screaming-in-Santa’s-lap Christmas photo.  Therefore, I should have known that my tempermental momma’s-girl would wake up from a little nap and allow herself to be placed in Santa’s arms without so much as a murmur of protest.

Damn it.

No tears, and certainly no screaming.  Just a sweet baby who made the big guy say, “What a quiet baby!” while everyone who truly knows the little angel rolled their eyes at each other.

However, the day was not a total loss.  Santa got a little surprise.  Well, a big enough surprise that he felt it and checked his white gloves once he handed her back.  And when we got home and looked at the photos, I was thrilled to discover that I actually captured on camera the exact moment when Hazel pooped on Santa.

All I Want for Christmas is a Clean Diaper





I’ll Never Grow Up, Not Me

8 06 2010

It was a typical scene: Jason and a few of his friends sat around a table in a dim room; fish tacos, Pabst Blue Ribbons, and a pitcher of margaritas in front them.  Among his friends was Travis, new father.

Karen and I sat a little way apart from Jason and his friends.  Karen was nursing her and Travis’s 3-week-old son, and I was keeping her company.  We were talking quietly, and could hear snippets of the boys’ conversation.

We heard Travis first: “But that all changes when they switch to solid food!”

“He’s talking about baby poop!” I exclaimed.

Karen and I were properly impressed that Travis had Jason and the rest of the group listening to him talk about baby poop.

But a few minutes later, I heard Jason jumping in: “They have these hybrid ones, that the inside you flush and the outside you reuse.”

“Karen,” I hissed.  “He’s talking about g Diapers!”

Jason was chatting about a brand of reusable diapers that somehow I had worked into a conversation some weeks past.  I had no idea Jason was paying attention at all – we’re not even married yet, he really has no motivation to tune into my chatter about diapers.

But… He does look pretty good holding a screaming baby:








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