THE TRICKLE DOWN EFFECT.

I used to change my underwear frequently.  Perhaps three times a day - or whenever necessary.  I didn't "shred" them, if that is what you are thinking.  But, I sure did make like a boy dog on a walk. . . and peed.  A lot.

When I became un-pregnant, I figured it would wane.  I thought that it would slow down and eventually go out without a bang.  And, I was right.  Until two days ago. . . when I sneezed and managed to squeeze out a large drop.

It felt like quite a bit made it past the floodgates, but somehow, miraculously, my underwear was saved.  I was actually ready to go commanda (that's the feminine version of "commando".)  So, you might ask, where did the flow go?  Was it actually so hot out that it immediately evaporated upon exit from my body?  Am I lying and I actually wet my pants?  Could I have pushed out a puddle and quickly reabsorbed it?

I have no idea.  But, wherever it went, I hope it stays there.  I'm just glad it didn't force me to "lose" my underwear in a public bathroom.

FLYING TIMES.

Today, the Hub and I took Baby J to the Air Show.  The Blue Angels were performing and I really needed a funnel cake.  It was hot but breezy.  We used copious amounts of sunblock.  On the baby.  Also, a SPF 50 hat.  On the baby.  Let's not also forget the noise cancelling ear protection.  For the baby.

In the end, Baby J seemed to enjoy the day outside as much as Hub and I enjoyed the nearly obscene people-watching.  Apparently, when it comes to shorts, "high waisted" also means "camel toe."  I just need to say this. . .

When your child is capable of walking long distances while easily "keeping up" with the adults in your group, s/he probably doesn't belong in a stroller.  At all.

This is doubly so when your child's legs are so long that their feet constantly drag under the front wheels. You can't even be mad at your kid for this.  It's not like they ran over something and stopped the flow of traffic.  No.  YOU ran over your kid.  Ugh.

Reconsider your use of a stroller.  You look as suspect as those parents who tell themselves that "it's a backpack" rather than a leash attached to shoulder straps.  Really.

Meanwhile, I am not an innocent of stupidity.  The Hub and I are completely sunburned.  I'm talking about my hair-part, face, forearms (GREAT start to this year's farmer tan!), and the backs of my legs.  Basically, I look like the new girl at the make-up counter got at me with a handful of blusher, I am a married Indian woman with a Sindoor (go "google" it, lazy-pants!), with 3/4 red gloves on my arms, and some really ill-fitting leg-warmers.   Hooray.  So much for leading by example.

AND TIME RESETS ITSELF.

It is official.  Our home version of the factory floor safety board has been reset.  Again.

This morning, I heard my lovely son talking to himself and peeked my head in the door to see just the top of his beautifully hairy head cresting up to see me.  As I got closer, I reached out to his adorable smile and then recoiled in terror.  The smell was secondary to the mustard colored stain next to my baby.  Upon closer inspection, I saw that there was a larger stain UNDER my child as well as ON his light blue and white striped onesie.

Counter is reset.  Again.

DISTURBING RITUAL

We have a system.  In the morning, a final feeding takes place.  As our child talks himself into awareness, the Hub gets up and brings him to me in bed.  There, I give him the last direct-from-the-source nourishment until after work hours.  This morning, we heard the man-child stir and begin to talk his five month old gibberish around 545AM.

As the ritual runs, the Hub got up to procure a baby for the feast.  But, he didn't return.  In fact, the happy talking turned to cries of frustration.  Have you heard a hungry baby cry with a nipple nary in sight?  Frustration.

Just as I was about to flip the blankets off and rush into the baby's room my Hub appeared in the dark doorway.  I could just make out his outline holding what looked to be a very tan and naked child in a diaper.

Cautiously, I whispered, "what happened?"

The quiet response, as my Hub continued to hold our baby delicately but also as if in sacrifice to some dark Goddess of Bowel, was, "there is shit.  Everywhere.  Shit.  It is the worst blowout.  Ever.  Shit.  All over the crib sheet.  Shit.  Oh, the shit."

Motherhood has apparently changed nothing about my personality.  I rolled over and lifted the blankets for baby insertion, boob still hanging out ready for action, and said, "if you got all of the shit off of him, lay him down and I will feed him before I leave for work."

Ritual.  It is a good thing.

On an aside. . . Baby wipes are great for removing shit from a kid - once you have wiped it dry.  Do you understand, people?  There is no wiping shit, which is made from some illogical wetness, too, with a wet wipe.  If the wipe is too wet, you just manage to make a shit paste and spread it more evenly all over your child, rather than lifting the offending substance away as planned.  Live, shit, and learn.

Live.  Shit.  And learn.